


Burdens of a Journeyman

by Xanateria



Series: Learning a Craft [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Established Relationship, His Last Vow Spoilers, Implied Het, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Open Marriage, POV Sherlock Holmes, Relationship Negotiation, Sherlock Series 3 Spoilers, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-07
Updated: 2014-06-07
Packaged: 2018-02-03 15:08:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1749017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xanateria/pseuds/Xanateria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock ought to be used to John defying his expectations by now. But he simply didn't anticipate his doctor confessing to having feelings for him, and certainly not at his new wife's behest. Not even his superior intellect can prepare him for the changes in his relationships, especially once those closest to him find out. Now Sherlock must navigate entirely uncharted territory and decide for himself how to make a very unconventional relationship work. Nevertheless, he does his best to adapt, even as events spiral even further out of his control.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burdens of a Journeyman

**Author's Note:**

> The main pairing in this story is John/Sherlock. However, it also contains implied John/Mary and has been tagged John/Mary/Sherlock because all three of them are definitely all involved in making these relationships work, even if the three of them aren't romantically involved. 
> 
> My profound thanks to annieb1955 and NaiyaAzurewater once again for beta reading above and beyond the call of duty. Any remaining mistakes should be blamed on my habit of adding things after I get the beta copy back. Not Brit picked beyond the basics, but I would love to add a Brit beta reader to my harem...I mean team. Please message me if you are interested.
> 
> Thanks also to all those who commented or left kudos on Part I. It may seem like a little thing, but each and every one means the world to me.

_Knowledge is dangerously addictive; only once you begin to learn can you understand the sacrifices that will be asked of you to continue._  


The day he meets John Watson, it’s immediately clear the man is different from everyone the consulting detective has ever met.

Sherlock doesn’t make friends. Despite what people think, it’s not because he doesn’t know how, it’s just that most people don’t interest him enough to make the effort. And besides, he makes a conscious choice not to allow people close to him. Family and friends just give your enemies leverage. In the end, they all leave anyway. 

There are exceptions; Lestrade he allows closer because he wasn’t himself when they met (it’s surprisingly difficult to cling to principles while high on cocaine and the DI was gentle, if not particularly kind most of the time. But Sherlock didn’t need kindness; he needed an incentive to get clean. The cases Lestrade can give him access to are tempting enough to merit reducing the usual distance he keeps between himself and everyone else, and they keep him away from the drugs. They disagree about a great many things: forensic methods, investigative techniques, and Lestrade's colleagues – most notably the odiously small minded Anderson. Even so, Lestrade’s staunch defence of, not only Sherlock’s methods, but Sherlock himself, never wavers, even when Sherlock is at his most caustic.

Mrs. Hudson is a force unto herself. Her sunny disposition hides the fact that she is rather like a very cheerful steamroller in human form. She decided she would be his friend, whether he liked it or not and nothing he can say or do (or fail to do) can change her mind. He assumes that her regard stems from simple gratitude for his help and will fade quickly. Instead, she brings him food and mothers him while somehow managing to engage him in conversation that is actually somewhat interesting. She was the first person who didn’t ask him to change something about himself in order to keep her in his life. And he does want to keep her in his life now. He can’t seem to help himself.

He chalked Mrs. Hudson up to a fortuitous anomaly and basked in the unconditional acceptance. When she eventually had proper access to her accounts and told him of her plans to buy Baker Street he congratulated her and even managed to refrain from pointing out the many pitfalls of owning real estate. When his landlord evicted him and she offered him 221b, the offer was more like a demand but he accepted anyway. It wasn’t like he had many better offers, given that he refused to avail himself of Mycroft’s assistance. Anything from his brother comes with too many strings. 

He didn’t require a flatmate for purely financial reasons; they were a consideration but if he forgets to pay the rent, he will inconvenience Mrs. Hudson, and he isn’t altogether certain he will remember to pay his share of the water and electric either. The idea of having to do the shopping made his skin crawl. He wasn’t certain he would tolerate another person in his space without resorting to casual violence or random destruction but decided to make a worthy attempt. Mycroft laughed and asserted that there was no possible way Sherlock would be able to live with another human being for more than one week.

From the very first time they met, though, John managed to defy his expectations. His praise was gratifying; that in itself surprised Sherlock as he’d long since told himself he didn’t need the approval of mere mortals. But it wasn’t just his brain power John seemed to enjoy; the doctor was happy spending time with him while they watched television or read in comfortable silence. Comfortable is not a word he could usually apply to his interactions with people, but Sherlock can’t deny that he felt as though he’d known John for years after only a matter of days. 

He got into the other man’s space, pushed him a bit to see where his boundaries were, only to discover he didn’t have very many, at least not when it came to Sherlock. He gave John his usual line about being married to his work, but he had to squash his own interest first. It took far more effort than it should have to ignore the impulse to touch, to kiss, to see how much farther the good doctor would let him go. But that would have taken him down roads that had led to pain too many times.

The death of Jefferson Hope changed everything completely. He already knew that John was loyal; anyone who spent any time with the man knew that, to say nothing of Mycroft’s… interference. But knowing the depth of it, the lengths John was willing to go, was a different matter altogether. No matter how much he believes he was in no danger, the end result was incontrovertible proof that there’s absolutely nothing John won’t do for him.

It didn’t take long to absorb the implication; managing to compartmentalize his reaction is a somewhat longer process. For the first time in longer than he cares to admit, his interest doesn’t bow to his will. The more he learns about Captain John Watson, the more he wants him. When he remembers how abysmally he failed at romantic relationships, self control grows easier; there ’s no physical pleasure that can possibly be heady enough to risk the only friendship he already knows he can’t afford to lose. 

After all, no one loved him without expecting some change for what they saw as better: not his parents, not Mycroft, not any of the very few people he chose for past dalliances. These days even Mrs. Hudson does her best to improve his manners, to say nothing of his social life. 

John was the exception to that rule from the beginning. He occasionally pointed out certain facets of social interaction that Sherlock had misunderstood, but he didn’t ask Sherlock to change, only made him aware of the emotional or social components he had missed. Unconditional acceptance was a heady drug Sherlock found himself categorically unwilling to give up.

If he felt desire for John as he fell asleep most nights, or in those first hazy moments after waking, long practice made it easy to put aside. The sensations were sometimes unpleasant, but he was confident the longing would lessen with consistent denial; the consequences of giving in were too negative to ponder.

In the long months he’s away, Sherlock tells himself over and over again that he is exaggerating the depth of his feelings for John, of how much he misses the other man’s presence and conversation. He makes detailed lists of exactly why he is not successful at sustaining romantic entanglements, which only prove how unsuitable he is as a prospective partner. Often he reminds himself that he’s quite capable of dealing with his physical needs on his own and that there’s no good reason for the longing he feels for all of the little physical touches John bestowed on him in any given day or other tactile contact of a decidedly more erotic nature.

Despite his difficulties, he thought it would be easier once he knew John had Mary. Unlikely as it was, it turned out he was mistaken. Though he knew that John’s close attachment to Mary, and later the engagement meant he was that much more unattainable, his mind refused to force his emotions into line. 

He supposes it’s care and concern for John that drives both Molly and Lestrade to point out that he must change his relationship with John, respect the proper boundaries of a married man or some other complete nonsense. But then Lestrade points out that even if John wants such a thing, he’s hardly going to tell Sherlock that, not after everything they’ve been through. The DI’s carefully gentle explanation grates on his nerves but the words burrow into his brain with surprising strength.

With an inordinate amount of reluctance, Sherlock finds the strength within himself to withdraw very small amounts at a time. It’s painful, a tearing ache within his chest, a pressure that all but steals his breath but he does it. And he comforts himself with the constant reminder that he is doing what’s best for John so the effect on him is immaterial. As he withdraws, he forces himself to bury the small spark of hope that he could ever have some part of John for his own. And if that hurts worse than the withdrawal, it’s no one’s business. Everyone chalks up his foul mood to other external forces and he doesn’t have the energy to correct them.

He didn’t expect the decision to be taken out of his hands. Still, he couldn’t contain the emotions that swirled within him when John came to Baker Street to confess the truth of his feelings. In all the time they’ve known each other, he’s never seen anything that took as much courage as it must have taken for John to admit his feelings.

For an instant, Sherlock actually thought he had the strength to continue to deny his own. But a small part of his mind forced him to remember all the times John had believed in him completely and absolutely. There’s no way he could live with himself if he did any less. He can’t quite bring himself to state it outright; past history taught him that love was a dangerous weapon that ended relationships. But he manages to make it perfectly clear that he reciprocates John’s feelings. If his doctor’s reaction is any indication, he doesn’t mind in the slightest.

All things being equal, Sherlock decides he can cope with being wrong when it comes to his relationship with John. He can admit – to himself at least - that he would likely never have spoken the truth of how he felt. That doesn’t mean he’s not grateful that John did.

Sherlock lets himself replay the previous night’s conversation. He’s not in the habit of doubting his own recall, but in the warm light of the morning, with John curled beside him, he needs to reassure himself that it had actually happened. 

There’s no doubting John means what he says. That’s one of the many things so utterly fascinating about John; he’s so inherently honest he simply doesn’t say things he doesn’t mean. But that doesn’t preclude him being mistaken about the depth of what he feels. Nor does it improve the likelihood that his emotional attachment will last.

Sherlock props himself on one elbow and looks his fill. Even with the uncomfortable path his thoughts are taking, he can’t bring himself to sabotage this relationship before it starts, like so many others in the past. What’s between them is just too good to turn his back on.

Rather than think of ways to drive John away, he imagines what it will be like when they can fully explore the newfound physical aspects to their relationship. It’s a very pleasant way to pass the time, but in only a few moments John’s breathing changes and his body begins the small movements that precede waking.

“Good morning,” John tells him, his eyes still blurry with the remnants of whatever he dreamt about. “I rather expected I’d wake up on my own this morning.”

“I have been led to believe that that’s not considered polite,” Sherlock chides him. He can’t quite bring himself to admit how much he likes being this close to John while he sleeps, how interesting it is to see him so willingly vulnerable. He deliberately omits the fact he calculated a rather high likelihood that John would need to return to Mary, so he wanted to be awake to say goodbye.

“True,” John agrees as he shifts to put an arm around Sherlock and draw him closer. “But since when do you worry about polite?”

Sherlock can’t help his smile in response, despite the fact it usually bothers him when people can predict facets of his behaviour. It feels safe that John can see there’s more going on than what Sherlock says. It’s always been that way; John’s got a knack for seeing beyond what he presents to the world. Sherlock thinks if he’s very lucky, perhaps John will also hear all the things he finds he cannot say, despite his facility with language. 

Given how long he’s spent reminding himself what he is and isn’t allowed to want, it’s been a very long time since he let himself hope for anything, especially when it comes to John. Now, everything is different, which is a definite positive, but he’s never at his best while dealing with a paradigm shift.

He blinks and realizes John is waiting patiently for an answer. “Well, perhaps I’m turning over a new, more polite leaf.” 

“Let’s not do anything too drastic so early in the morning,” John teases, then leans over to steal a soft kiss.

Sherlock keeps his eyes open for signs of second thoughts or shame, but there are none: John’s a bit tentative, but happiness is clear on his face and in the lines of his body. Sherlock likes that he’s responsible for the happiness, and relief sweeps through him when he confirms John’s lack of regret. Although he knows it may still come, such things don’t bear thinking about right now.

There's something I can't figure out though," John asks as he pulls back a few moments later. "I mean, I can see why you wouldn't tell me that you had, but what changed your mind? About being married to your work, I mean?" he clarifies.

Before he even opens his mouth, Sherlock knows his answer will sound hopelessly sentimental. Still, it's the truth and this is far too important to risk anything less. "It wasn't any one specific thing, not really. You were just you, always there. I assumed my physical desire for you would wane with time and effort. I failed to account for how much deeper my feelings for you would become." He pauses to choose his words with extra care. "It wasn't until I had to experience my life without you in it that I truly accepted not only how much I care for you, but that you deserved to know so if the opportunity presented itself." 

John's eyes go wide, and his smile lights up his whole face before he leans in and puts his arms around Sherlock, drawing them closer together. "I know exactly what you mean," he murmurs. There's a pause, while he breathes deeply and considers saying more, but he only kisses Sherlock again, softly this time, like he can't quite believe what's happening.

The reaction is enough to help Sherlock ignore the anxiety he feels at such an admission. Experience tells him being so open is dangerous. But this is John, who would never intentionally hurt him and who needs verbal expressions of emotions in order to be satisfied with his relationships.

Still, he needs a chance to restore his emotional equilibrium. “While I don’t object to kisses first thing in the morning, I suspect they will be more enjoyable after we’ve both completed our morning ablutions,” he decides, as he climbs out of bed. He ignores the surprisingly strong desire to stay, to curl around John and simply enjoy the closeness between them. There are too many unknown variables in the scenario, and they’re under his skin, like an itch he cannot possibly scratch. He won’t let himself get too comfortable in his new situation until he has more information, no matter how tempting a picture John Watson makes in his bed.

He’s almost out of the bed, when John stops him with an arm over his waist. He’s very quick when he chooses to be. “I’m not giving you up, whatever this turns into between us. Just so you know, I don’t care how you might try to push me away if you over think this. Hell, you try it now and I’ll just tackle you back on to the bed.” His tone is light, but there is steel underneath it.

Sherlock swallows his first, rather glib, answer and nods instead. “I shall endeavour to keep that in mind.” 

He doesn’t allow himself to linger – much, on the thought of John tackling him and pining his body to the bed as he walks away to grab his dressing gown.

The muted beep of an incoming text on John’s phone sounds as Sherlock brushes his teeth. Not exactly a stretch to know who would text him now, and Sherlock freezes for a second before he deliberately continues what he was doing.

He looks in the mirror for a long moment, and wonders what John sees in him, exactly. He knows himself well enough to know he’s not the accommodating type. Most would call him selfish and self-centered at the very least, and he would agree with them. But this, whatever this is, it isn’t just for him. For reasons not even he can understand, John wants this too. So helping make it happen can’t be entirely selfish. 

That’s not the whole truth and in the silence of his own mind, he can admit it. He wants John on levels he couldn’t have previously comprehended. Sherlock isn’t fond of labels, not because he particularly cares what people think of him, but because he finds them ridiculously confining once they’ve been applied. Until recently, it was the same when he gave in to his emotions, they made him feel trapped at the mercy of something he cannot fully understand.

Except now happiness bubbles up within him and he simply accepts. He doesn’t care that he can’t fully understand the why of it; it’s enough that he has it. He refuses to indulge in thoughts of the future or the past. Perhaps there is something behind all of those who exhort that one should simply be mindful in the current moment.

John is sitting on the edge of the bed and he smiles when Sherlock comes back in. There is no way one brief night of almost superficial touching is even close to sufficient. The data he has now: the different shades of golden skin, the taste of it, the rasp of hair against his palm has only whet his appetite for more. It’s extraordinary that this want he’s carried for so long is now somehow acceptable, encouraged even.

“Mary wants to come over after lunch. What do you think? We should talk sooner than later,” John suggests.

Sherlock manages a nod and flops back onto his usual side of the bed. It’s unlikely Mary is agitated about the previous night’s developments, given that she gave her consent, but his stomach roils at the thought of the upcoming conversation. He doesn’t – will never- regret what happened the night before but he can’t help but wonder what he will have to do to keep it, to see it grow beyond one night. He tells himself that whatever they ask of him cannot be any more difficult than containing his own desires for years, but fear still tries to edge through his composure.

Sherlock’s known how to present himself as cool and remote, no matter what he actually feels, since he was very young. Mycroft told him it was important not to give the bullies he inevitably interacted with more ammunition, which meant controlling his reactions. He also said that he should have been able to control himself better before he turned six, but familial disappointment was nothing new, even then.

John’s goes for his turn in the bathroom. The space should be a relief, but after he moves, Sherlock feels cold and comes appallingly close to wrapping his arms around himself.

When John comes back, he shimmies over and drapes himself more over Sherlock then beside him. “You’ve gone quiet. God knows I’ve never had a conversation like this one and I know it’s strange but it’s not an inquisition, you know.”

“You’re speculating,” Sherlock retorts. “Neither of us can know for certain what the conclusion of the upcoming dialogue will be.”

“You’re right. I don’t. But I still want to have it, because I want to explore whatever this is we’re building between us and I know we can’t really do that until we sort out the details.” He stops then, and the happiness from earlier is back. “That’s all it is, Sherlock. We’ve already gotten the hardest part out of the way. And we would never have done it without Mary’s help, so try not to worry she’s going to skewer you to a wall, or whatever dire scenario you’ve concocted.”

That’s a bit dramatic, even for his brand of pessimism but when he tries to say so, John lays a finger against his lips to stop him. “Actually, speaking of talking, there’s something else I need to talk to you about. I know we didn’t go any further yesterday because we wanted to talk to Mary first, but I really don’t want to rush things, physically.

“God knows there’s plenty of things I want to do to that gorgeous body of yours, but it’s been a really long time since I’ve been with a man. And I’ve never been with one who matters to me as much as you do. I hope it’s alright if we take things a bit slower.”

He knew that, of course. John’s denials about not being gay have always been carefully worded so as not to exclude the possibility of bisexuality, but given his personal history, it was clear that his opportunities for male companionship would be limited at best. Regardless, the idea of any other man seeing John like this is abhorrent and Sherlock has to remind himself that he has no right to ask who they were or what they meant.

“I’m sure we will manage to come to an agreement that is mutually pleasing. I have no objection to taking things slowly. It allows me more time to learn your preferences,” Sherlock says instead.

“I was hoping you’d say that.” John leans over, lays his lips on the side of Sherlock’s neck and kisses his way up until their mouths meet. He tastes of toothpaste and mouthwash. They trade kisses back and forth, and this time it feels like comfort, an easy warmth that makes him want to sink into it until he can’t feel any of the sharp edges of his fear.

***

It’s kind of Mary to allow the conversation to happen at Baker Street. She knows he is more comfortable here than anywhere else but she could just as easily have insisted they talk in her territory. Despite the gesture, he’s still on edge as she arrives. In his experience, those who go out of their way to cater to him do so to lull him into complacency so they can have their own way later. 

He tells himself that’s not in keeping with what he knows of Mary’s personality, but she is the one who already pointed out he knows very little about human nature. At times like these, the lack of knowledge is particularly distressing. He keeps his expression calm while John and Mary greet each other and all three of them move to sit down. 

John moved a chair close to the sofa earlier, and Sherlock takes that seat while the other two sit together. He wants to be able to observe both of them directly.

“For all that this was my idea, I don’t quite know how to start this conversation,” Mary admits, embarrassment and determination clear on her face.

“I think the most pressing question is what exactly do you get out of this new arrangement?” Sherlock asks. 

He expects irritation, perhaps defensive posturing of one sort or another, but Mary only shakes her head a little and tilts her head toward John.

“Look at him, really look, Sherlock. The answer is right in front of you.” She tilts her head toward John, and settles back expectantly.

Sherlock can actually feel his lips press together with irritation. It’s all but intolerable to not be in possession of all the facts, even worse - Mary made the connection first.

He looks at John intently, disregarding all other forms of input for the moment. The seconds tick by, nearly a full minute expires, but he needs to be completely sure he isn’t missing anything. This is too important. 

John takes the scrutiny calmly, accustomed to it by now. He’s clear eyed and smiling, more amused than anything else.

“When’s the last time you’ve seen him this happy?” Mary asks him. Sherlock blinks, uncertain of the answer but she isn’t finished. “Or yourself for that matter. You can try and hide it all you like, but you’re happier than I’ve seen you before.”

The fact that it’s true isn’t as annoying as the fact she can tell.

Mary continues before he can even open his mouth. “Don’t even bother telling me John’s the only one who ought to matter in this equation, Sherlock. That’s not your decision to make. Other than me, you’re the most important person in his life; of course that makes you important to me. But you’re important for your own sake, you hopeless lump.” 

Her voice wavers and she stops and clears her throat before she keeps talking. “I’m not like you. I don’t hypothesize about every conceivable outcome before I do something. But I did give this some serious thought. And all I could see was the both of you making yourselves miserable.”

She looks at John, too many emotions in her eyes to classify. “When you really love someone, it makes you happy to make them happy. I think you already know that.” For the first time, she hesitates. “Figuring that out was the easy part. I’m not nearly so sure about the rest of it all. But we’re all reasonably intelligent.” She stops and raises an eyebrow at Sherlock’s smirk. “Some of us more than others, granted. The point is, I think we can figure it out.”

Sherlock isn’t nearly as sure of that as she seems to be, but he stays silent, waiting to see what the other two have to say about it and what he’ll be able to glean from their reactions.

“I think this is one of those things we need to figure as we go,” John speaks quietly, and doesn’t hide how hesitant he is. “I’m not sure I can express how grateful I am that you would consider this, how grateful we both are, I’m sure. But first things first, do you have any rules in mind? The last thing that we want is to make you unhappy or uncomfortable.”

It’s a perfectly reasonable question. There’s no reason for his stomach to clutch, or his spine to stiffen but Sherlock manages to keep himself from reacting outwardly. It takes far too much effort. 

“I know how Sherlock feels about rules,” Mary begins, “so I don’t know I’d call them that exactly. But in the first place, I want you both to not turn into mannequins with each other if I’m in the room – you’re so stiff and careful with the space between you. It’s ridiculous; I meant it when I said I’m okay with this. It’s a bit strange, but it’s good. You don’t have to hide what you feel on my account, and that includes expressing affection.”

There’s no signs of deception, though clearly she finds the subject a bit uncomfortable. It’s easy enough to attribute that to going against a conservative, middle class upbringing. “That’s very reasonable of you,” Sherlock agrees.

She laughs, then quirks a small smile at him. “Oh don’t worry. I’m sure I won’t be reasonable all the time.”

John snorts. “I can vouch for that, yeah?”

She thumps him on the arm lightly. “Shut it, you.”

Watching the interplay, Sherlock lets himself smile and relax slightly. It’s so easy between them. Before John, he wouldn’t have been able to say that anyone understood or accepted him in that way. Even now, the truth of it doesn’t make it any less bewildering. 

“We’re getting a bit far afield here,” John points out a moment later. “Was there anything else you wanted to bring up now?”

Mary’s eyes falls shut and she takes a few deep breaths. When she looks at them again, there’s no trace of laughter. “Well, this isn’t a rule, or a limit, exactly. But, I’m really hoping you’re willing to spend time with both of us, Sherlock. You haven’t since the wedding. I’d like for us to be proper friends too, not just people who get along for the sake of the person they have in common.”

Sherlock can count on one hand the number of times he’s been truly surprised in his adult life. And now he’ll have to add this one. He comes perilously close to a stutter when he tries to answer, and takes a second to nod and collect himself. “John tells me that I was misinformed when it comes to the distance that is appropriate.”

“Good,” Mary tells him. “If we want distance, we’ll ask for it. Both of us.” She glances at John for confirmation and smiles when he nods too.

“Besides, if I leave you two unsupervised for too long, goodness only knows the trouble you’ll get into.” She lets her smile slide toward smug for just a moment. From anyone else that would be irritating but Sherlock can’t really bring himself to mind since she did provide John with the impetus to confess his feelings. Without that prompting, he seriously doubts there would have been any talk of something as distasteful as feelings between them. 

“And while we’re mentioning things, I have no interest in turning into a referee for you two. I’ll always listen to both of you, but I’m not going to start taking sides.”

Sherlock can see no reason to involve anyone in his disagreements with John, so that’s easy enough to agree to. He nods to indicate his acceptance, then pauses. Both John and Mary are looking at him expectantly. He replays the last few exchanges quickly, then it hits him. “Oh. My turn then. You’re right; I don’t like rules. And I don’t think I’m in any position to be making demands in this situation.”

Mary shifts and opens her mouth to speak but John beats her to it.

“You aren’t the lesser person here just because I’m not married to you, damn it. No. Just no, Sherlock. If we’re going to do this, we'll damn well do it on equal footing. So we all have the right to say what we want or what we don’t want. That includes you.” John pauses, takes two measured, deep breaths. “You must have opinions about all of this. You have opinions about everything. So go on then: what do you think?”

Sherlock knows that, despite the truth to what John says, he cannot share a great deal of what he feels in this moment. His feelings will need to be processed and some of his opinions would be seen as more hurtful than would be acceptable. However, since successful relationships require communication, he chooses the least likely to be misinterpreted and forces himself to speak.

“I’m concerned how I will balance my participation in this new dynamic and my prior commitments to my work,” he begins, and continues as if he doesn’t hear John snort softly. “I’m at a loss as to how we would balance the time requirements for any type of relationship between the three of us.” He stops to consider how that must sound. “That is to say between John and myself, and the two of you, not the three of us together.” 

“Yes, I know what you meant,” Mary assures him. “I don’t think I can handle an over-sized schedule for such things, Sherlock, much as I know you love to plan. But we’ve managed to share for this long, there’s no reason we can’t keep it up. Though, come to think of it, affection is as much as I need to see. If things are going to escalate, then I’d rather that happen at Baker Street. There is such a thing as too much detail, yeah?”

Though his smile looks a little strained, John nods his agreement readily enough. “Of course.”

Sherlock makes agreeable noises, and he knows he shouldn’t say it but he really can’t help himself. “Doesn’t it bother you at all, the thought of John - of your husband - and I together in that way?” Everything he's observed about marriage says it should, more than a little and his lack of understanding is frustrating.

Mary looks at him for a long moment without answering, and he thinks he’s gone too far. Then she sighs and shakes her head. “It does, a bit. It’s not so much jealousy as it is a fear of the unknown. Though I expect I'll probably be jealous now and again, and you'll tell me how ridiculous I'm being,” she tells him, more amusement than he expects in her tone.

“Jealousy is frightfully dull, even if it is the motivating factor behind numerous acts of violence: murders, assaults that sort of thing.” Sherlock is careful to keep his tone offhand, and equally careful not to mention his own issues in that direction. 

“He says that like he doesn’t have a possessive streak a mile wide,” John observes to Mary.

“Only about things that matter,” Sherlock retorts.

It’s a simple statement of the truth but it makes both of them smile at him. The approval loosens some of the tight bands that wrap around his chest. “What about you, John? If I’m to voice my thoughts on the subject, surely you must do so as well,” Sherlock points out.

“Oh, I think we’re all insane,” John tells him, tone serious but eyes dancing with laughter. “But that doesn’t mean we don’t have the right to whatever kind of relationship we choose. I already have everything I want.” He stops and takes a deep breath. “Offhand, there’s only one thing I need to insist on, Sherlock. No telling me what you think I want to hear. I want the real you, even when you drive me to drink.”

There’s so much information in that one sentence that Sherlock is still considering what response to make when John sits up, leans forward and kisses him. “Come out of your head,” he murmurs as he sits back.

Just the brief touch of their mouths together snaps heat down his spine and makes Sherlock want to curl his hands in John’s shirt and yank him closer. Mary’s presence helps him fight those impulses back, but it’s a struggle and John knows it, judging by the slight smile on his face.

For her part, Mary has no such restraint and laughs lightly at both of them.

Sherlock’s notes that the sound of her laughter doesn’t provoke the usual defensive tightening in his body. Her whole demeanour telegraphs that she's happy John feels comfortable enough to do as she asked. “I think we’ve probably covered the important bits,” she tells both of them. “I’m going to call this conversation a success.”

Sherlock agrees, though he can’t escape the thought that things are about to go terribly wrong at any moment, that he’ll do or say something that will remind the others of exactly how inept he is at these kinds of situations and that’ll be that.

But nothing terrible materializes. They spend the rest of the afternoon watching crap telly while Sherlock deduces the highlights within minutes. It should be awkward, when John curls around Mary on the sofa and Sherlock leans against his other side, but it’s not, it only takes some shifting to arrange themselves in an optimal configuration. Once they settle, Sherlock feels himself relax.

With everything going on, neither of them managed lunch. Eventually John and Mary get hungry enough that John calls their usual Thai place for take away, and insists that the other two lay the table. It’s a bit of a struggle, since Mrs. Hudson hasn’t done the washing up recently, but they manage.

Sherlock can feel the wary set of his muscles but Mary treats him just as she always has and pulls a face at him the third time she catches him studying her. “The only thing that’s changed is that none of us have to hide or pretend anymore,” she tells him while she stands at the sink to fill the glasses with cold water.

He waits until she turns before he shakes his head. “This is only the beginning of the changes. By the time we’re done, you may very well wish you could undo what you’ve started.”

Mary sets the glasses on the table so smoothly the water level barely sways and then moves to stand in front of him. “That’s not going to happen, Sherlock. None of us can see the future but I’m not going to change my mind about this. I didn’t decide to tell John that I knew – to try and help him face his feelings for you - or yours for him - on a whim. This was something I put a lot of thought into and, no matter how hard it is for all three of us, I know it’s going to make things better.”

Before Sherlock can do more than nod in response John wanders into the kitchen. All three of them finish cleaning off the table, moving around each other with ease. 

Sherlock wants to ask Mary to clarify exactly what she meant, what she knows of his feelings. Mary is more observant than most of the people he’s met but that doesn’t explain how she came to know something he habitually hides from just about everybody. It’s disconcerting that someone – even someone he likes and trusts – can see that much of him. It makes him feel exposed in ways that really don’t sit well. But he bites back the urge to tear into one or both of them with deductions or insults; hurting Mary hurts John and that is the last thing he wants. 

Later, he actually eats some of the food on his plate and both of them smile at him. The approval makes him feel warm, even while he tells himself it doesn’t matter. It bodes well that they spent a pleasant day but he knows himself better than to think it will always be this easy. He doesn’t voice those doubts and thinks he would like to be proven wrong, just this once.

When they finish eating, Mary says she needs time to bond with Sherlock and gives her husband a significant look. John declares he’ll handle the washing up and banishes them from the kitchen. Sherlock gives in without a fight, which makes John’s eyebrows raise but he doesn’t comment.

Sherlock settles cross legged in his chair with his weight tipped almost too far forward and waits. Mary’s in a position to make whatever request she likes but he’s certain she has more in mind than bonding, whatever horrors that might entail. 

Once Mary is comfortable, she asks for details of their latest cases, but interrupts his answer once the water running and the clatter of dishes is loud enough to cover their voices. “I fell for John almost as soon as I met him. He admitted he was broken – that he was grieving for you -but there were so many good things about him, I couldn’t help myself.” Mary stops, and her eyes cut to the kitchen door before she continues.

“I wanted to know him, really know him, and I wanted to help him. But when I realized I was falling for him, I was absolutely terrified because losing you didn’t just break him; I’ve never seen anyone in that much pain still breathing. He survived but he wasn’t living, you know?” She stops and her eyes are haunted when she looks at him. “There was no way for me to not know how much he needed you. I made him get rid of his gun, told him I wasn’t comfortable with them, but really I was afraid he would use it on himself.”

It’s not just her words that trigger the dull throb of horror that turns his stomach. It’s the fact he can see it so clearly. He thought he had a good understanding of the pain he caused John, but he’s clearly mistaken about just how much suffering was involved.

He realigns the facts in his mind and tries to remember to breathe normally as Mary continues. “When you came back, underneath how furious and hurt he was, I could see that not even your death changed how much he needs you. But John is nothing if not loyal, so he fought with himself about it, thought he had to stop loving you because he was with me. And if I’d let him do that then I would have been responsible for breaking him all over again. I love him too much to do that.”

Her voice cuts out then, though her eyes are dry. “I thought you should know that. I know the two of you don’t talk about when you were gone and I respect that. I wasn’t going to say anything, because I didn’t want to make you feel worse about it than you probably already do. But if this – whatever it is – is going to work, you need to know all of the reasons why I pushed us to this.”

There’s more to her reasons than she admits; he can see that she’s holding back. He knows people lie and evade all the time; it’s just another factor to consider. She has a habit of it more often than most, but he manages to leave well enough alone.

Whatever Mary’s motivations for initiating such a non-traditional paradigm, it means John is happy. That is more than enough reason to let time and action reveal the truth about Mary and what exactly she might be hiding. It will be difficult to keep from deducing her, peeling away the layers of what she presents to the world, but he knows it’s the right thing to do, not only for Mary, but for John as well.

Besides, this time she’s allowing him a window into something John still keeps tightly locked away. No matter how many different ways he tries to approach discussing his ‘death’, John never allows it for more than a minute or two.

“I understand. Thank you for telling me.” It surprises him how close he is to letting his voice tremble as he speaks.

“You’re welcome,” Mary tells him, her expression just a shade too careful, like she’s already braced for more questions. When they don’t come she excuses herself to the loo and Sherlock takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. Her words reverberate in his mind and he has to swallow several times to clear the painful lump in his throat. He did what he had to do, he reminds himself. But that doesn’t assuage the sick feeling in his stomach. Guilt serves no purpose; it won’t accomplish anything in the current situation but it seems he can’t avoid it.

By the time John is finished in the kitchen, Mary is yawning. It’s not terribly late, but it’s been an emotional day, so he supposes it’s to be expected. 

He assures both of them that he’s perfectly fine in the wake of their discussion and tries not to look as impatient as he feels while John calls a cab. He needs some time alone to dissect the conversation and his own feelings about it. Despite his ability to take things in stride, he can feel the pressure building – too many possible outcomes, too much new data, all of it swirling together into a confusing mental cacophony he can’t stop.

Mary leaves first; she hugs him so quickly he doesn’t even have time to decide how to respond, and then she’s gone, her footsteps light on the stairs as she heads for the door to keep an eye out for the taxi. Sherlock takes a quick breath, his mind flicking through the motivations for that particular expression of affection. 

“You’re not exactly convincing me you’re okay,” John tells him as he steps close. 

“I’m fine,” Sherlock assures him.

John raises one eyebrow and looks at him with his ‘I’m not sure it’s safe to believe you’ look. When he smiles, it’s more rueful than amused. “You’d tell me that if you were bleeding and only half conscious. In fact, you have.”

“True,” Sherlock admits. “But in this case, my person is intact and I really am fine. I simply have a lot to think about.”

That gets him a slow nod. Then John leans forward and brushes his lips against Sherlock’s in the barest hint of a touch that deepens slowly and turns just a bit savage at the end. It takes Sherlock a few heartbeats to realize the ragged breathing is his own, and that his upper body is leaning forward as he seeks the warmth of John’s body.

“Something else for you to remember while you think about things,” John murmurs, his rough, low voice an indication he’s not quite as in control as he’s trying to look

***

Sherlock’s expecting the summons the next day when the car glides up beside him as he goes looking for a cab back to Baker Street. He gets in the car willingly – for the most part. This time, Mycroft clearly hopes for a home field advantage; they meet in his office. It’s somewhat excessive and designed to intimidate the vast assortment of petty – and not so petty - functionaries that fill his day.

Sherlock is not impressed, though he notes that his brother has recently upgraded his safe and added another two security monitor feeds. He spares a moment to set a reminder to look into what valuables might have prompted that, and then turns his attention to the matter at hand. He doesn’t really care what Mycroft feels is important enough to warrant a face to face chat.

Besides, they get along better now that Sherlock is back from the dead. Oh they still bicker, of course, but more because they both enjoy it than out of any real desire to cause harm, at least for the most part. Sherlock knows that’s at least partially because the circumstances surrounding his supposed death forced him to rely on Mycroft for the first time in years. It’s unsettling but still manages to leave a warm feeling in his chest when he thinks about it. 

He makes sure to keep any trace of warmth off his face when Mycroft steps through the connecting door. There’s a time and a place for that sort of thing, after all.

“Do sit down Sherlock. Looming isn’t a good look for you.”

Sherlock waits long enough to be sure it won’t be taken for obedience when he slides into the armchair on the other side of the desk. “Are you going to get to the point of this charming rendezvous sometime soon?”

“You didn’t really expect to make such drastic changes in your personal life without any comment, did you?” Mycroft asks, his tone deceptively light.

“You already have your answer. It’s my personal life.”

“Be that as it may, you’re headed for any number of unqualified disasters. The only question is which one will happen first. Has your work taught you nothing? Involving yourself with one married person is foolhardy, two is sheer stupidity. Marital interference only causes heartbreak, and it’s almost never for the one person who’s single.” 

It’s subtle, but Sherlock hears a thread of genuine concern and fights to keep his expression serene. Mycroft must be deeply worried to let such things show.

“You’re referring to instances that involve deceit and a lack of consent. That is not the case here,” he says, uncertain in that moment if he wants to reassure himself or his brother.

“You’ve convinced yourself that it will all end well because you’ve all been honest, but we both know that’s not the case. I highly doubt you’ve been completely forthcoming and, even if you were, the chances John and Mary have been are slim to none.”

It’s an effort to curtail his reaction to a slight tremble down his spine. “That hardly invalidates the principal points we’ve already discussed. Regardless, I’m not interested in a debate on the subject.”

“Let’s not debate then.” Mycroft is deceptively agreeable. Tension coils through Sherlock as he waits for his brother to make his point. “I’m simply curious if you’ve considered whether or not you will go public with your relationship. Society frowns on non-traditional relationships at the best of times.”

Sherlock scoffs before he can stop himself. “Yes, because I’ve always had such concern about public opinion. Please don’t pretend that it’s not your own reputation that concerns you.”

“Actually Sherlock, as strange as it sounds to the both of us, what most concerns me at this moment is your happiness.”

He breathes out carefully before he answers. “I am happy.” It’s both true and terrifying. 

Wearing his best knowledgeable older sibling smile, Mycroft nods. “I’m glad for you, brother mine, I truly am. Nevertheless, you must admit that this involvement leaves both of them in more danger and means more weaknesses your enemies may exploit. Unless you plan to give up the work, it seems your newest entanglement is both selfish and dangerous. And what of the child? Bad enough you expose Mary to possible danger, but an infant? That seems a bit beyond the pale, even for you.”

“You already know that attempting to make me feel guilt will not result in modification of my behaviour. Those dangers you mentioned are none of your concern. Unless of course you actually wish to be helpful and mitigate the worst of the possible potential problems.” It’s rhetorical, but even before he finishes the sentence, Sherlock has to hide a wince. He really should know better than to play into his brother’s hand.

Mycroft tilts his head slightly, his eyes sparkle and the smile he flashes is entirely too shark-like for comfort. “Interesting you should mention that. I could help with certain pesky details, if I were properly motivated.” He lets the last word draw out too long and looks expectant.

“Whatever it is you want my help with, you could have just asked,” Sherlock points out while he fights to keep the petulance out of his tone.

“Perhaps,” Mycroft agrees, and this time when he smiles, it’s mischievous and almost warm. He reaches for a file on his desk and hands a sheaf of papers over. “But where’s the fun in that?”

***

The day starts off so promising: a case that looks to be a seven and escalates to an eight. Then he makes the connection to the illegal poaching operation that a child could have made and it goes back down to a three before he even has a chance to text John. He can’t bother the other man at work for less than a seven. He wasn’t looking for a reason to do so but still has to resist the urge to curse when he tells Lestrade he’s leaving.

Just as Sherlock hails a cab, his mobile rings. He answers without looking, as he’s getting into the vehicle.

“I’m on my way to A & E.” Mary’s voice is higher than normal and a bit breathless. 

He’s about to explain that John isn’t with him, when she continues. “I’m having some pain and some bleeding, they said to come right in. John’s got some emergency at work, elbow deep in someone’s insides I imagine. They’ll tell him when he’s done but I don’t want to be alone until then.”

Sherlock interrupts before she can ask. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes, possibly less if the cabbie actually listens,” he tells her, while he studiously ignores the thrill of pleasure it gives him to know that she called him rather than some close female friend or other.

“Thanks.” Mary sounds a bit steadier. 

He hangs up then, intent on making sure he gets to the hospital as fast as possible. The promise of a hefty tip persuades the driver to take his route suggestions and ignore most of the traffic laws. 

It’s impossible to relax at all; his mind insists on bringing up all he knows about possible pregnancy complications and statistics about miscarriages and other things that could be relevant. He knows both John and Mary are heavily invested in their future offspring, that it will be difficult for them should something go wrong. Much as he wasn’t looking forward to the disruption an infant would bring to their lives, not to mention to John’s availability, he finds the idea of a negative outcome surprisingly distressing. 

By all indications, Mary is quite looking forward to motherhood, though she’s still having reservations about her ability to do perform her duties adequately, if the number of books she has read on the subject is any indication.

Despite how pleasing it is to be needed, he wonders then if it might be better if Mary had someone else with her, to help her deal with what is a uniquely female problem. A small part of his mind catalogues the different methods of giving comfort that he’s seen Mrs. Hudson or John use. As a general rule, he’s not good at being reassuring, but under the circumstances he will have to try. It’s what John would want. Besides, at this point any distress might mean further harm to the baby. He’s hardly going to let that happen.

Mary’s still waiting in triage when he arrives. He lets her hug him and even manages to squeeze her back without feeling ridiculously awkward. He notes the tightening around her eyes, the furrow between her eyebrows and the rigid way she holds herself, and the rapid beat of the pulse he can see in her neck and gently settles her back into her seat. Typical, she’s understating the pain she’s in with those closest to her. He makes a note to be sure she’s honest with the doctor as they settle in to wait.

They take her back on her own and assure him he can join her once she’s done with intake. For a moment, Sherlock considers arguing but decides against it. His arguments with hospital staff often end with him ejected from the premises, and that would be unfortunate at this point. He’ll give them a small amount of time before he overrides their procedures, or perhaps has Mycroft do it for him. 

It’s only nineteen minutes later when a fresh-faced altogether too perky health care assistant leads him to a small exam room. Mary huddles on the narrow bed, and looks toward the door as he comes in. Beneath the blanket they had given her, she looks small and her face is far too pale.

Sherlock takes a deep breath and lets it out with a nod. Then he drags the chair from the corner over to the head of the bed and sits down. A few moments later, Mary takes the hand that is closest to the bed. He doesn’t comment, only squeezes back and doesn’t let go. 

A little over a quarter of an hour later and a technician comes in to perform an ultrasound. Sherlock sees nothing but the usual structures, no signs that would point to a problem and only just manages to keep from sighing in relief. Mary smiles for the first time since they’ve been there, and he feels suddenly light headed as she blinks rapidly to fight back tears.

Only six minutes later, the doctor comes in to tell them what they already know. Mary will be fine, the bleeding was likely due to hormonal breakthrough from her regular cycle. The pain is a bit more concerning, but might have been due to the stress of the situation or over exertion. 

This doctor seems adequate at best, but Sherlock agrees with his conclusions so he keeps quiet while the man explains that Mary must rest, eat a balanced diet, and avoid situations likely to cause her stress. 

Sherlock tracks the recommendations while he ponders exactly what Mary might have been doing to over exert herself. Clearly he needs to pay more attention to this pregnancy business and helping John ensure that Mary follows the rules the doctor sets out. While he eschews almost all medical recommendations, especially those that don’t come from his very own doctor, Mary has no such privilege while she has chosen to grow a person.

Once Mary’s been given her instructions for what to watch for at home, the doctor signs the paperwork so they can leave. This time, Sherlock does sigh with relief. His intense dislike of hospitals – excepting the labs he can access - is inconvenient, considering his line of work and apparently remains constant whether he is the patient or not. 

When they get a cab, he gives the driver Mary’s address after only a few seconds consideration. She’s been through a difficult experience, and she will want to recover in familiar surroundings. He’s been there several times, picking up John on the way to murder scenes and the like, but the idea of being there alone with Mary makes his skin prickle with unease that only grows stronger when he realizes it would be more than a bit not good to leave her there alone. And he doesn’t know how long it will be before John gets there.

Minutes from the hospital, they hit heavier traffic than expected. Mary fidgets beside him but when she goes still, he sees she’s fallen asleep. Careful to keep his touch light, he eases her head onto his shoulder. The angle is better for her neck and after a moment, she shifts closer to his side with a soft little noise of contentment. It’s a bit more than he had in mind, but not altogether unpleasant. It only takes a second to rearrange things so she is covered with more than half of his coat for most of the journey.

Mary wakes as the vehicle comes to a stop and doesn’t comment on her makeshift blanket, only smiles at him as she waits for him to get out.

Sherlock keeps a sharp eye on her as she goes up the stairs, but she’s steady, if slightly slower than she should be. Once they’re inside, she turns to him and her face is still too pale and the shadows under her eyes too dark. “You should go have a lay down,” he tells her.

She summons a slight smile, likely at the irony of him telling anyone to sleep, but nods in agreement. Despite that, she doesn’t move toward the bedroom, only keeps looking at him, an odd tentative look on her face.

“Will you...” she trails off, then starts again. “I understand if you need to go.”

He makes sure to put on his best affronted look before he speaks. “Leave you alone after a day like today? What kind of friend do you take me for? I’ll stay until John gets here, at the very least.”

Gratitude suffuses her face and for a moment the fatigue fades. “Thanks, Sherlock, really.”

It only takes a few seconds to mentally itemize the list of things he could be doing: there’s the two experiments that will need checking on within hours, that article he still hasn’t read yet and the cold case from Lestrade he still hasn’t solved. Strangely, he finds he isn’t impatient to get going on any of those things. “You’re welcome,” he says before he gestures towards the bedroom.

The grin she gives him in return is warm and her eyes sparkle the way they do when she knows he’s hiding something. She says nothing, only turns and walks to the bedroom. She doesn’t close the door all the way, and he can hear the sounds of her in the bathroom, then the rustling of the bed linens as she gets comfortable. Once he is certain there will be no other problems that need his attention, he drapes his coat over the back of the sofa and lays down, folding his hands under his chin to help him think.

He doesn’t intend to sleep, but it has been several days since he’d gotten any real rest and his eyes slide shut somewhere between his contemplation of stress reduction techniques and the best sources for up to date information on the progression of a normal pregnancy.

John’s careful to be quiet when he comes in, but Sherlock wakes instantly, instincts and conditioning far too strong to ignore.

“How is she?” John murmurs as he crosses over to the sofa.

“She’s fine,” Sherlock asserts, and flicks a hand toward the copy of the report he’d helped himself to on the way out of the hospital. Hard copy proof of his assertions makes things so much easier.

“Oh thank god.” It comes out on a long breath of a sigh and Sherlock watches the tension ease out of the other man, but says nothing.

He waits as John shucks his coat and pads into the bedroom. Once he disappears from sight, Sherlock takes that as his cue to leave. He’s been working at spending more time with both of them, but after a day like today, it seems likely they will need some time alone. He can use the time to come up with a blueprint for a problem free pregnancy, since Mary has clearly made some lapses on that score.

Before he manages to stand up, John is back. “Where do you think you’re going?” He sits down, close and warm.

It’s slight, but noticeable, the fine tremor in John’s muscles, and his hand shakes when he reaches up to fist a hand in the fine fabric of Sherlock’s shirt. “Thank you,” he murmurs, “for being there for her. I know it can’t have been comfortable for you. When I got her message, I thought I’d go out of my mind with worrying. Then I got your text and remembered how to breathe.”

Sherlock gives his usual liquid shrug and forgoes an answer, though he’s quite proud of the pleasing the outcome of the day. The next thing he knows, John’s shifting over and kissing him with a serious sort of intent that makes him wish they both had on less clothing.

“If this is the thanks I get, then you’re quite welcome,” he says eventually.

When John grins at him, wide and happy, Sherlock can’t find a reason to evade the next kiss or the one after that. 

Then the conscience that he consistently denies having prods him. “Much as I enjoy our current activity, if we continue, you are likely to allow the adrenaline crash you are experiencing to override your previous decisions about physical intimacy, and I find myself without the willpower to stop you if that were to happen.”

“Right,” John agrees, though his breathing is harsh. “In other words, no matter how much I want to suck you off until you come down my throat, making you scream would wake Mary and we promised we’d only get up to such things at Baker Street.” 

Sherlock feels his pulse jump and he’s painfully hard an instant later, but his only outward reaction is a slow blink. “Ideas like that are not exactly assisting my resolve,” he points out. But he smiles as he says it, to let John know he enjoys being spoken to that way, that he understands now isn’t the best time for such explorations. 

They trade a few more kisses, these ones softer, but still full of heat until Sherlock hears John’s stomach rumble loudly. Rather than letting John up, he goes to the kitchen and heats him a plate of leftovers. Basic consideration isn’t too terribly difficult and he rather hopes he might get better at such things with practice. While he eats, John tells him about case that held him up at work for far too long. 

Later, Sherlock goes to sleep in the spare room. It’s only for a few hours but it’s surprisingly restful, despite the provocative nature of his dreams.

***

In the intervening days, he’s grateful for the sleep he managed to catch in John and Mary’s comfortable guest room. A high end art forgery case leads to a drug trafficking ring that uses children as mules, and those in charge have no problem killing the children if things go pear-shaped. No one involved in the case manages much in the way of food or rest.

He finds the time to manage what John considers the bare minimum when it comes to food, but whenever he closes his eyes, Sherlock sees the bodies of mutilated children. He’s too self-aware to betray any indications of it to John, but he lacks the energy to make it stop. 

Between making sure that Mary is taking care of herself, putting in his minimum hours at the hospital, and helping Sherlock, John is just as run down, which is likely why he doesn’t nag as much as he normally does. Oddly, Sherlock finds he misses the nagging, almost as much as the physical expressions of affection he has made a rule not to indulge in while on a case. He tells himself it’s because he doesn’t want to risk distraction, but by the third day he can’t quite remember why that’s so important.

They get a lead on the ringleader that same afternoon, but the man evades them with the help of a traffic jam and a clog of tourists, melting into the crowd like smoke on the wind. Disappointment refuses to be set aside as they finally get a cab back to Baker Street. They’ve no set schedule for when John spends his nights there, or when Sherlock stays over at what he still thinks of as Mary’s, but Baker street is closer and John is too tired to travel far.

When they manage to stagger up the stairs, he orders John to go get some sleep. It’s not a good sign when John goes without argument, mumbling something about wasted opportunities under his breath.

The irritation in his doctor’s tone makes Sherlock smile. They may have agreed to take things slowly, but there hasn’t been nearly as much time for intimacy of any kind as they would like. There’s a difference between respecting John’s wishes and driving himself crazy. It’s nice to know he’s not the only one feeling the bite of frustration.

It’s a sign of how exhausted he is that he thinks longingly of joining John, curling up and letting oblivion claim him. It’s surprising how much he’s come to enjoy sleeping with John, even when all they do is sleep. But the trace samples collected from the latest warehouse are already on the counter that runs along the far wall. He tells himself he’ll take a few hours’ rest once he’s gone over the first half dozen or so. Sometime later, the door to his bedroom turned lab opens and Mary comes in. He knows it’s very late and he expects a lecture. 

When she only hands him a cup of tea, he frowns but accepts with a nod of thanks.

He can’t remember when he last ate or drank, so Sherlock gulps down several swallows before he stops to speak. “Should you be out and about this time of night?”

“Unlike certain people I could name, I had quite a long nap today, and a lie in besides. I’m not tired, which is more than I can say for you,” Mary retorts, though it’s clear she’s keeping her voice down in deference to the late hour. “John texted to say goodnight, and he was nearly incoherent so I knew he was the next thing to asleep. But he said the case is still on so I knew you were likely still up, and just as likely to be about ready to fall on your nose from sheer exhaustion.”

“Hardly,” he says, and sips more tea. It’s quite good, though a bit too sweet for his taste. 

For a moment, it looks as if Mary will argue the point, but she only shakes her head and smiles sweetly. “Look, at least finish your tea, and I’ll leave it alone then, alright?”

There is nothing about keeping such late hours in any of the suggestions he compiled for a more efficient process of gestation, but a small part of him is pleased she is here, apparently just to help take care of him.

Without the evidence to focus on, he feels the heavy weight of fatigue pulling at him, and finishes his tea with the vague hope that the caffeine will help him find his second wind, though by now he supposes he is likely into his third or fourth. “There, happy now?” he demands, but there’s no real bite to his tone.

His first inkling that something isn’t right is the slight slurring of his words. The second is Mary’s hand on his elbow, gently guiding him towards the door. “Come on now, Sherlock. Let’s get you upstairs and into bed before my addition to your tea really kicks in.”

Already he can feel himself starting to float and he can’t quite manage to grab on to his anger. “You have no right to drug me.”

“If you had even a fraction of energy left, I’d never have been able to. But we’ll have to argue about it later. It should be only enough to make a man mildly drowsy, but you persist in working yourself to the bone, so I expect it’s going to knock you on your ass.” There’s no trace of apology in her matter of fact tone.

They make their way to the bedroom. The lamp is on, casting a pool of golden light on his side of the bed. On the other, John is already so deeply asleep his fingers are twitching. 

Mary guides him until his sits on his side, then prompts him to take off his shoes while the fog in his mind gets thicker. The bed is soft and already warm from John’s body heat and Sherlock smiles when he realizes he can sink down onto it.

The next thing he knows, he’s horizontal and Mary is tucking the blankets around him. Just before he gives in to the lure of the lovely darkness behind his eyes, he feels her brush his hair back and press a kiss to his forehead. 

“Sleep well, Sherlock.”

In the morning, he wakes with no after effects from his impromptu sleeping draught. He still thinks he ought to be angry, but his mind is clearer and his body is quite happy to curl around John and breathe in the subtle smell of his soap. It occurs to him that perhaps it should be strange, knowing John’s wife put him to bed, but he’s warm and content and clearly she didn’t mind, so he decides not to waste the effort. He does however, make a note to add ‘no drugging’ to the list of their rules.

A little while later, John stirs and asks why Sherlock is still in bed. He’s still laughing about the whole thing when they set off for the landscaping company that the evidence points to.

***

The following day, Mrs. Hudson is sitting at the table when he stalks into the kitchen after his shower. He knows her exceptionally well, but he can’t place the look in her eyes when she sets tea in front of his chair. She’s one of the few people who can make him tolerate the horrors of small talk, so he answers her inane questions and even manages to keep his snark to a minimum.

He’s halfway done his tea, when he decides it’s gone on long enough.

“Out with it, Mrs. Hudson. Clearly, something is bothering you. I think we’ll both feel better if you tell me what it is.”

“I’m not sure you could say I’m bothered, precisely, Sherlock. End of the day, your relationships are your business. But for all your brilliance, I think you’re missing an important detail about getting this involved with Mary and John.”

Sherlock gives himself the space of a slow blink to reorder his assumptions. He doesn’t bother asking how she found out; it doesn’t matter, at least for now. Then he remembers how conventional some people choose to be about relationships and he feels his spine stiffen. But that is an unnecessary worry. Mrs. Hudson wasn’t broadcasting any signs of disapproval.

She’s chosen to present herself as the grandmotherly type, but Mrs. Hudson’s observational acuity is quite good. “Oh don’t get yourself in an upset, dear. I didn’t bring it up because I think it’s shocking, or shameful, or any other such nonsense. Under almost any circumstances, I’d say it was your business, since it’s your bedroom, and be done with it.”

Relief makes him a bit lightheaded as he waits for the inevitable pause. “And in this case?”

“Well, I know you well enough to know that you think you’ve properly considered all the variables, Sherlock, but forming an attachment to one person is tricky enough. Two is a minefield, even for someone as clever as you.”

“Is that it then, you want me to be careful navigating the minefield?”

“I know better than to think telling you would make a difference, dear.” She smiles as she says it. “Believe it or not, I was once in a similar situation. I learned a few hard lessons from it and I’m hoping you’ll at least listen to the voice of experience.” She looks at him pleadingly. 

He nods in answer and she continues. “If you really want it to work with both of them, then make sure the relationships with them are equal. I’m not saying you have to love them both the same way, but you have to care for them both.” She stops, and it takes a few tries before she speaks again. “If you simply tolerate Mary because you...” She trails off, then starts again, picking her words with extra care. “It seems to me, Sherlock, that you’re tolerating Mary for the chance to be with John. That’s not fair to either of them, or to you, and in the long run it’s a recipe for disaster.”

The concern is unexpected, though it shouldn’t be. He clears his throat to give himself a chance to consider his response. 

“I assure you, Mrs. Hudson, there is no cause for you to worry.” Sherlock breathes out slowly, uncertain how to explain what he hasn’t even put into words for himself. In fact, he’s put deliberate effort into avoiding just that. As much as he cares for John, admitting he loves him is dangerous. His relationships with those he loves have a tendency to deteriorate.

But he can’t help but consider the effort John has put into all of this, what it must have cost him to confess how he felt. And then there’s the care Mary has shown him, even if he doesn’t condone her methods. What he feels for her is different, given his orientation, but it’s no less real. 

“You’ve analyzed my interactions but based that analysis on a faulty assumption,” he explains. “The fact that I’m not openly affectionate with Mary doesn’t mean I haven’t come to care for her. While it’s true I wouldn’t have made an effort to have a relationship with John without the catalyst she provided, she is important for her own sake.” Even as he says it, the full realization weighs on him. It’s no less than the truth, but it’s not one he’s entirely comfortable with. What started as appreciation for what she has made possible has morphed into a depth of emotional investment greater than he’d intended.

Mrs. Hudson gives him a long look, then nods. “Well, that’s good, then.” Her smile is slow, but just as warm as ever.

She stands up and comes over to hug his shoulders, which freezes him in place and makes her chuckle at him. “Just be careful. I don’t want to see you hurt. You might be able to fool most people with that sociopath rubbish, but we both know the truth.”

***

There’s a lull between cases after that. Before he can edge toward bored, John texts him to ask him to come over to look at the list of potential houses he and Mary have come up with. It’s not exactly the most scintillating prospect, but Mrs. Hudson has threatened to hold his microscope for ransom if he damages Baker Street again. As if he could have known that particular stain would be impossible to remove. 

The table is awash with papers when he arrives but it takes only a few minutes to scan all the relevant real estate listings. “Is this your way of telling me Mary’s carrying twins?” he asks, when it hits him what all the listings have in common.

John’s whole body jerks and his eyes go wide. “What? No. Why would you say that?”

“All of these listings have more rooms than you need, even accepting that the baby will need its own room eventually.”

“The extra rooms aren’t for another baby, Sherlock. They’re for you. We’d never ask you to leave Baker Street, but we want you to have a room with us at least.” John hesitates a bit as he explains it, but it’s clear he’s determined to make Sherlock agree.

There’s a slight pause, because Sherlock actually feels his thoughts freeze for a moment, caught on the idea that they want him around often enough to give him space of his own. “In that case,” he manages to answer a few heartbeats later, “perhaps I ought to better examine the listings. Some of them are probably highly unsuitable.”

“Why do you think I asked you to come?” John smirks in a self-satisfied way that Sherlock ignores.

He’s quite correct: several of the possibilities just won’t do at all. This leaves Mary beaming happily, as apparently she is in complete agreement with his exclusions, and explains they are only on the list because John feels they are eminently practical.

John pretends he’s upset and loudly proclaims it unacceptable that they gang up on him, but he helps find more listings happily enough. He brings a fresh stack to the table and catches Mary around the waist to stroke a hand down her belly and brush a kiss against her hair.

Sherlock rolls his eyes despite how much he likes to watch them. Not only is it an endless source of relationship data but, more than that, seeing the two of them happy makes his world brighter. That doesn’t mean he needs to admit such things.

He attempts his usual diversionary tactics, but he still worries his presence will somehow damage the connection John and Mary have. At times he imagines he can see it, though it’s a terribly sentimental notion. He’s done a lot of things he’s not proud of and not all of them were while he was away, but he’s certain coming between Dr. and Mrs. Watson would be the worst of his many offences.

There’s a reason few people keep him in their life for very long; they don’t understand him but, more than that, they don’t want any of his negative qualities to rub off. So far as he can see, John and Mary are the exception. Once they got to know him, they actually sought out his company. As profoundly grateful as he is for that, he cannot silence the part of him that thinks they would be better off if they didn’t.

When he sees John looking at him with concern, he forces those thoughts aside and joins in the good natured bickering about the prospective residences. He borrows Mary’s computer to research more options, easily ignoring her token protests. By the time Lestrade texts Sherlock to ask if he wants to review some cold cases, they’ve come up with a new short list. 

Sherlock will have to go back to Baker Street to take possession of half a dozen cold cases. The DI is terribly picky about making sure no one sees the files who shouldn’t. Before he leaves, Mary hugs him tight and raises an eyebrow. “Am I forgiven?”

He manages not to smile, and gives only the smallest of nods. “I still don’t approve of your methods,” he says. “But it doesn’t make sense to be angry with you for caring about my welfare.”

John snorts and turns it into a cough. “Can I get that in writing please?”

“Certainly not. I was speaking of Mary, not you,” Sherlock tells him in his very best dismissive tone. 

“And why should she be the exception?” John demands.

“She’s prettier than you are and she doesn’t nag as much.” Sherlock lets the warmth light his eyes when he answers.

The sound of their laughter follows him out the door. 

***

The text from John makes him frown with irritation. Apparently some colleague had the poor taste to come down with influenza and of course John is the one covering for the unfortunate fellow. Now it could be hours before he makes it to the flat. Sherlock’s been looking forward to spending an evening, just the two of them, and now he’s alone and the walls feel like they’re closer than they should be.

His current experiment fails to generate any interest; in any case, things have reached the point where he’ll have to dispose of the spleens. He picks up the violin, but his mind won’t settle on what to play and his hands can’t keep up anyway.

Temper makes his pulse pound in his ears and he has to remind himself he has rules about what he’s allowed to break for a reason. His tolerance for inactivity is even lower since he came back to his life. Normally he is quite capable of finding his own diversions, but in this case his mind insists that the options begin and end with John, no matter his current availability. 

There’s no precise reason for it, but there’s a small part of Sherlock’s mind that worries over the change in plans. He feels cold, though he knows the thermostat is set to a comfortable temperature, and his stomach knots. He tells himself to stop being ridiculous, but the feelings refuse to dissipate.

Since he wants to be there when John actually does manage to make it to the flat, Sherlock decides to use the time constructively in his mind palace. He flings himself onto the sofa and attempts to get comfortable. He has no data that indicates anything is wrong with John, other than fatigue and the usual work stress, so there’s no point in worrying. The knowledge is eminently logical, but doesn’t help at all.

The sound of footsteps on the stairs brings him out of the palace and for a moment he’s annoyed at the interruption. It’s late, nearly midnight, and the tread can only belong to John. The annoyance vanishes and he feels himself flush slightly. Finally.

When John steps in the door, he’s wearing rumpled scrubs and carrying his clothes in a bag. “God, what an absolute mess of a night. Sorry I took so long. Believe me, I would rather have been here.” 

Sherlock doesn’t move from the sofa, though he imagines getting up and draping himself over John right where he’s standing. “I would have preferred you here as well,” he says, not caring that his voice sounds more than a bit combative. It won’t do for John to think such delays are acceptable.

John tries to smile at that, but it edges closer to a grimace. “I’ll just go take a quick shower, and then you can scold me for however long you feel is necessary.”

Only when he hears the water go on does Sherlock climb off the sofa. He’s already had the lecture about leaving people alone when they’re in the bathroom. But, it’s hours past when he should have been able to see John and surely those rules don’t apply when one is romantically involved, even if the involvement happens to be somewhat unorthodox? And it isn’t as if John ever has any problem telling him when he oversteps.

Before he can make up his mind, John calls out. “You can join me if you like.”

Sherlock steps out of his dressing gown before he opens the bathroom door. The room is already full of steam and the warmth is pleasing, though not as much as the sight of his doctor, naked, with water cascading down his back. 

John’s hands are full of soap and he runs them over his chest. His head is directly under the spray, but he’s looking to the door. His face is wrong; the furrow between his brows he only gets when he’s trying not to think at all is far too deep. And his eyes are three shades too dark, not with arousal, but with emotional discomfort.

By then Sherlock is already out of his shirt and has one hand on the glass door of the shower. “What is it?”

“I don’t want to be alone, not even for long enough to shower. I can’t talk about it yet, but tonight was bad. I was hoping you might help me forget about it.”

He steps back to make room beneath the spray and Sherlock climbs in.

There’s room for both of them with some to spare, since John presses them close together as soon as Sherlock’s all the way in. Sherlock knows it’s not the hot water that’s elevating his temperature as much as the fact that John’s slid one hand in his hair, while the other tracks down his chest.

“What exactly did you have in mind when you say I should help you forget?” he asks, mindful of John’s prior requests about the progress of their physical relationship and not wanting to read too much into the current situation.

“Before my night went to hell, I was stuck in that bloody building and this was all I could think about.”

“Me in the shower with you?” Sherlock asks with a slight smirk.

“No,” John leans up for a kiss. “You naked and mine to do with as I please. Though the shower is a nice touch.”

Sherlock stops the words with a kiss of his own. He can feel the tension in John’s body, practically taste how desperate he is to chase away whatever memories are pushing at him. Before he can decide what to do about that, the decision is taken out of his hands.

John pins him to the wall with one arm. “Stay there,” he murmurs, his voice an octave lower than normal and firm with the expectation of obedience.

With John looking at him that way, he’s hardly going to argue. He lets his head rest back on the tiles and catalogues the sensations in his body as John puts his knowledge of anatomy and his cleverly talented tongue to good use. In the past, even during sexual encounters he classified as enjoyable, some part of Sherlock was always occupied elsewhere. 

But John keeps him grounded solidly in the present. There is nothing but the touch of strong calloused hands on his skin, the slick slide of an even warmer mouth against all of the places that make him gasp and moan.

He’s simply not able to hold on to his usual level of control and finds himself doing things without meaning to. But John doesn’t seem to mind the hand Sherlock tangles in his hair, or the low, needy moan he can’t hold back. He’s too busy with his own thorough exploration. 

Caught in the flood of information his body is giving him, Sherlock makes a wordless noise of protest when John shifts back.

“It’s okay,” John manages to say, his breathing uneven, before he presses their mouths together for another kiss, this one harder and lacking the technique of earlier. 

Sherlock realizes he’s done that, made John “Three Continents” Watson forget his formidable skills because he wants him so much, and surprise wars with pride. He knows people find him aesthetically pleasing, perhaps even beautiful, but to be wanted so much is a new experience. Then John slides to his knees in one fluid movement and Sherlock feels his thoughts scatter.

Kneeling on the floor of the shower, John shifts until he finds a position he likes. When he leans closer his breath ghosts over Sherlock’s cock and he makes a hungry sound that sends heat licking down Sherlock’s spine.

There are few things in his life Sherlock is more proud of than his self control, but when he looks down to see John’s lips stretched around him, feels the vibration from the sounds he can’t hold back, his self control starts to splinter under the assault of pleasure that’s so good it’s sliding close to pain that he never wants to stop.

Sherlock lets his eyes slide shut for a few seconds, limiting the input so he can remember not to thrust too hard. He may be greedy but he would never risk hurting John.

He can feel how much John likes what he’s doing; he keeps trying to take more before he’s ready, barely managing not to choke. Though he’s clearly done this before, it takes him another long minute before he coordinates the movements of his hand and his mouth because he’s focusing too much on mapping every inch of Sherlock’s cock and balls with his tongue. 

When he feels John’s other hand reach up to grab a handful of his ass, he thrusts reflexively with a curse. John makes a noise of clear approval though and won’t let him pull back.

Far be it for him not to give the man what he wants, Sherlock decides, but the thought is distant, lost in the rising wave of lust and want. It’s good, but Sherlock knows he can make it even better. He shifts his weight so he can reach down and tangle a hand in his doctor’s hair, angling John’s head so it feels even better when he thrusts forward. John’s gives a choked off, broken moan in response that resonates through Sherlock’s chest.

It occurs to Sherlock that for someone who claims to be out of practice, John is doing an excellent job at taking him apart. Every time he tries to grab a hold of his control and draw things out, John does something particularly clever with his tongue or speeds up his rhythm with a hum of approval. Finally, John looks up and Sherlock can barely see that his eyes are wide and his chest is heaving with desperate breaths. 

Sherlock feels his breath catch. Despite his imminent gratification, it’s not his own satisfaction that concerns him just then. The sight of John kneeling there hard and close to desperate but ignoring it to bring him pleasure is remarkable.

Too soon, Sherlock is biting his lip, feeling heat spark and slide down his body. Pleasure builds, makes him feel lightheaded as his body overrides his mind completely. The world narrows to the heat of John’s mouth, the scent of soap, and the strain he feels as he careens toward orgasm.

John’s fingers tighten where he’s gripping Sherlock’s hip hard enough there will be bruises and the brief flare of pain is enough to push Sherlock over the edge. His hips snap forward, and he comes so hard he forgets to breathe, forgets everything except how amazingly good the sudden free fall of release feels.

When his synapses are firing properly again he’s breathing far too heavily, barely managing to stay upright. John’s still on his knees, but he’s leaning back so he can look up with a smile that’s gone just a bit smug around the edges. Sherlock doesn’t fight the answering smile that tugs at his lips. But the water is going cold so he reaches down to offer the other man a hand up.

Spectacular oral sex isn’t exactly what he thought John had in mind. As they climb out though, he realizes it fits. John’s a very giving person in all aspects of his life and nothing would distract him faster than the opportunity to pleasure someone else. Sherlock chooses not to comment on the obvious avoidance and they dry each other off, paying more attention to erogenous zones than is strictly necessary. When they finally make their way into the bedroom, part of him wants escalate things, but he can see the signs that John is still suffering from some emotional turmoil, and his now clean body is all but screaming for rest. He’s in no shape to be an active participant in more amorous pursuits. 

They slide beneath the sheets. When John moves closer, Sherlock allows the embrace but speaks before their mouths touch. John is very distracting; he’s not sure he can stay on topic if they end up kissing. “As much as I enjoy the activities we would normally engage in at this point, I feel I must point out you would be better served if you tell me what happened today. Then you can stop spending so much energy trying not to think about it.”

John’s body tenses, muscles rigid as he gives a deep sigh. For long moments, he says nothing and Sherlock fights the urge to take back his question.

“My last patient of the night was a seventeen year old girl. Every sodding thing that could go wrong with that poor child went as wrong as it could possibly go. There was no time to call in anyone else, and my best wasn’t good enough. Her heart stopped twice and we managed to get her back, but then we couldn’t find the bleed fast enough and...” John’s voice trails off then he swallows hard. “She bled out on the table.”

His tone is too calm as he says it, and Sherlock knows that’s not the worst of it. John has lost patients before and, as hard as it is, he’s got coping skills. Losing a patient wouldn’t be enough to tear at him like this.

He brushes his lips against John’s forehead gently and tightens their embrace to be sure there is no space left between them, silently letting John know he isn’t alone, that someone’s listening. He’s never had much luck with verbal comfort, but past experience has taught him that sometimes a presence can be a comfort.

A second ticks by, then another and John takes a deep breath that goes shaky when he lets it out. “When I went to tell her family, I tried to tell them she didn’t suffer much but they didn’t take it well.”

That same careful calm highlights what an understatement that must be, but Sherlock says nothing. 

“The girl, Angelica, she had a sister - a twin sister. She was so angry I thought she would attack me. And the parents were worse - not that they didn’t have reason to rage. It’s not like I haven’t dealt with devastated families before, but this time was worse somehow; I keep hearing the things they said,” John admits with equal parts fury and grief clear on his face.

“It wasn’t your fault, you know that. As you so often remind me, you’re not God. You cannot control every outcome. The fact that Angelica’s family needed to blame you doesn’t make their opinions correct,” Sherlock told him. 

It takes a second, but then John gives a slow nod. “I know.” 

The agreement should have made things better, but the sadness is still there in his eyes, and his expression makes it clear he’s still replaying events in his mind. That won’t do at all, Sherlock decides. The sight of John’s suffering resonates within him, coiling a painful weight in his own chest.

“There’s no changing it now, regardless. Let it go, John. You don’t deserve to carry her family’s pain because you couldn’t save her.” It’s on the tip of his tongue to add that John has enough of his own, but he keeps that to himself.

He reaches up to stroke a hand down the side of John’s face, and shifts to kiss him, stealing whatever reply John would have made. He cannot stop John’s thoughts, but he can make him feel instead. He runs his hand down John’s body until he can take him in hand and stroke him to hardness while he maps the contours of his mouth. Within seconds, John’s panting into his neck and choking back a moan.

Unable to hold back a small, pleased smile, Sherlock continues stroking, catching the sounds John can’t seem to hold back: moans, gasps, and various attempts at his name.

Sherlock has to take a breath then, to control the fierce pride he feels knowing he’s responsible for the loss of control. Feeling John’s body move in a counterpoint to his strokes, the thrusts erratic and uncoordinated. Sherlock speeds up and puts his mouth close to his doctor’s ear before he speaks again. 

“If you can still think properly, I must not be making enough of an effort.”

John reaches out then, tries to grab a hold of Sherlock, but the taller man puts a stop to that, and shakes his head. 

“No. This is for you.” He half expects to feel the demands of his own body renew, it’s such an erotically charged picture. But more than anything, he wants to see John surrender to pleasure that blots out anything and everything else.

It’s more effort than it should be to direct a small corner of his mind to review all the various ways he knows he can affect John physically. Several of them aren’t possible under the current circumstances, and others would require putting space between them, which isn’t acceptable. Sherlock speeds up his strokes and adds the variations he knows John likes the most. And that’s almost enough: John’s breath catches on a near sob and his spine bows with the familiar tension. 

“Will you come for me, John?” He all but purrs the question. “I want to see you,” he tells him, beyond caring that his voice is rougher than it should be, threaded through with longing.

It takes only a few heartbeats for Sherlock to decide that the sight of John Watson in the throes of orgasm is one of the most beautiful things he’s ever seen. And the only way he could possibly improve on the sight would be to be inside him when it happens.

He doesn’t say so though, only lets his doctor burrow in close while he comes back to himself. They’re both sweaty and it should be uncomfortable, but Sherlock has to force himself to get up a few minutes later to get a warm flannel. He takes a minute to wash at the sink, then goes back to the bed to wipe John clean. He gives in to the impulse to press kisses along the curve of one hip as he goes, trusting that John’s post coital haze means he wouldn’t notice the traces of sentiment.

It’s John’s turn to gather him close when he slides back under the blankets. “That was amazing,” he says.

Sherlock lets his lips curve, and makes an attempt not to smirk. “Naturally.”

It makes John laugh, low and quiet. “Careful, if your head swells any more, you’ll stop being able to fit through the door of the flat.”

Sherlock looks closely at the other man. He seems lighter, though there are still shadows of the earlier pain in his eyes.

“There’s nothing wrong with a healthy ego,” he retorts. 

***

Despite his frequent assertions to the contrary, Sherlock is honest enough with himself to admit that his relationship with John and Mary changes his approach to the work. Before John, and by extension Mary, he wouldn’t have hesitated to fabricate a romantic attachment to further his progress on an important case. The fact that Janine is placed so close to Magnussen is terribly convenient, but even Sherlock is aware enough to know that using one of Mary’s friends in such a fashion is more than a bit not good. The idea of allowing John to believe his feelings had changed – even in the short term - was abhorrent.

Luckily, he’s always been adept at planning for contingencies and his untraceable accounts allow for truly spectacular bribes when necessary. It took several years to set up his finances to his satisfaction, in ways that Mycroft wouldn’t be able to stick his nose into, but it’s a simple matter to give Janine’s nest egg a substantial bump and get the access he needs.

After some time in his mind palace to consider the matter, he tells John of his plans to pursue Magnussen and his reasoning why this particularly target needs dealing with. When he reaches the point in the explanation that details the man’s predilection for blackmail, John nods and pulls a face.

“Sounds like a charming fellow,” he murmurs. Despite his own propensity for violence, John has little tolerance for criminals who use such brutish tactics.  
Sherlock hums in agreement, and continues with the salient details. He expects that John will want to tell Mary at least the bare minimum about the current case, but John rejects his usual pattern.

“We don’t need her worrying. This has all the earmarks of a case that’s going to blow up on you. That means you need me beside you, and she doesn’t need the stress about those sorts of things.” He slants a rueful grin at Sherlock. “I can worry enough for us both.”

“There’s no cause to worry,” Sherlock reminds him. But he is carefully casual as he explains the reasoning behind the necessary undercover work. The media will be more than happy to latch on to his supposed drug habit. They’ve had long enough to chew over the facts of his resurrection; time for the pendulum to swing from positive to negative. But it will take some time to exhibit the required patterns of behaviour.

Sherlock predicts it will take less than five seconds for John to object, but the other man surprises him and says nothing. The silence snaps taut, and the line of John’s jaw makes it clear he’s clenching it harder than he should. After several long moments, John stands and walks over to the window, still silent.

It takes two tries before John manages to get words past the anger he’s trying to contain. “I know better than to think I can stop you from doing exactly as you choose. But I also know that your impossibly big brain is more than capable of coming up with some plausible reason why I should be able to come check on you in whatever hell hole suits your purposes. Will you do that for me, Sherlock?”

Sherlock knows John’s anger masks fear. The fact that he sees no cause for John’s fear in no way lessens the intensity of the man’s feelings, and knowing he is the cause makes discomfort twist low in Sherlock’s belly. But John accompanying him is not in the plan and the potential for distraction can’t be discounted.

“I’ll only _appear_ to be incapacitated, John. I’ll still have my wits, which means I’ll be better armed than anyone else there. That should be more than enough to keep me safe. It’s a crack den - not likely to be populated with masterminds, after all.” Sherlock allows the superiority to slide into his tone, hoping to lighten the mood, but the effort falls flat.

John turns to face him then, and the responses he discards are clear on his face. “Addicts are unpredictable and volatile. It’s a dangerous mix, surely even you can admit that. Please give me a chance to make sure you’re okay?”

The please hits Sherlock and brings a lump to his throat. John so rarely outright asks for anything, and never in such an openly vulnerable tone. Not even Sherlock’s considerable willpower can resist that.

Carefully, he paces over to stand in front of John. “Alright. I shall contrive a selection of check-ins that lesser minds will assume to be random.”

John relaxes and breathes out a sigh. He shifts his weight, reaches out to curve his hands into Sherlock’s waist, and then brushes their lips together. “Thank you.”

He deepens the kiss and bites at John’s lower lip just so he can soothe the sting with his tongue, uses that point of contact to explain how much it means to him that John cares so much.

Even as he catalogues the sensory impressions from the kiss, a small part of Sherlock’s mind clamours for attention until he can no longer ignore it. “Is my safety the only reason you want to monitor me?” It would be logical to worry that Sherlock couldn’t control himself.

He expects anger or defense, but John only chuckles and shifts drop a light kiss on the corner of his mouth. “That’s the only thing I’m not worrying about. As if you’ll let yourself risk that kind of distraction. Besides, you’re not who you were then, I know that.”

Sherlock feels a heady swirl of relief. The simple answer has too much conviction to be anything but the truth. He takes advantage of his position to eliminate any scrap of space between their bodies, reveling in the heated press of John’s solid musculature against his own. “Excellent observation, John,” he approves before he lifts his face for another kiss.

***

For all his ability to foresee contingencies, Sherlock is so shocked when Mary pulls a gun on him, he will swear later than it was as if the Earth shuddered on its axis for an endless moment. It’s not his first gunshot wound, but the experience is not improved for repeating. With the help of his mind palace, he survives the immediate aftermath.

Mary is there the first time he swims back to consciousness. He listens to her directive not to tell John her secrets and drugs make it easy to be impassive as he wonders if any of her presentation was real, if her regard for him was anything but a mask.

He tells himself he’s more upset that he chose to miss so many clues to her real character, chose not to dig down into what she was hiding. In retrospect, he feels like as big of an idiot as Anderson for willfully overlooking so many things: language that no self respecting Brit would use, far too many instances of near perfect recall, physical fitness and exertion that didn’t match her lifestyle. His anger at Mary pales next to the sheer fury he is too weak to direct at himself. But he knows that the coldness he feels is a physical manifestation of the sick sense of betrayal no amount of narcotics will allow him to distance himself from.

It takes far longer than it should to set all of that aside. He needs to think; there are much more important considerations than his own inconvenient feelings, chief among them how John will react to the now inevitable realizations about his lawfully wedded wife. When Sherlock lets his mind settle on that, anger flares up hotter and brighter than he expects. How anyone could hurt John like this is beyond comprehension, and the idea Mary could do so makes him wish he had could demand an explanation, preferably with his fists and damn what Mummy says about hitting a woman. Mary is clearly more than capable of defending herself and he does like a challenge.

Sherlock prefers physical destruction as an outlet for his anger, as the walls of 221b can attest, but such indulgences are not an option right now. He settles for wrecking one of the lesser used rooms in his mind palace. It’s an acceptably substandard substitute and he reduces it to rubble in a shockingly short time, though the only outward signs of his agitation are a slight increase in respiration and heart rate.

When he loses the fight and slides back towards sleep, he wonders where John is and if he’s alright. Over the next hours between the waves of pain and planning for all the steps he must take next, he worries constantly about John’s welfare. Fleetingly, he decides if Mycroft worries even half as much about him, perhaps he should be slightly more sympathetic towards his brother.

Sherlock expects the worry to lessen once he’s implementing his plan; he knows John is intelligent enough to follow the path left for him. But then he sees the look on John’s face after Mary’s shown her true colours to what she thinks is a dummy. Even angrier than he’s ever seen him, his doctor looks so utterly destroyed that Sherlock feels his heart lurch.

Still, the plan proceeds as he expects; the pain radiating through his body and his own anger make him harsher with John than he wants to be, but the end result is what matters. John agrees that Mary will be their next client. When Mary tells them that people like Magnussen need killing by people like her, Sherlock bites his tongue hard enough to make it bleed. He doesn’t want to agree with her, not about anything. But she’s more right than even she knows.

Sherlock feels his knees turn to water and he knows his time has run out. Fortunately, he estimated the ambulance time correctly; he wants to smile but his lips won’t obey him. Cold washes down his body as he starts to fall. Then John is there, easing his way down; his doctor’s voice goes distant and tinny as spots dance at the edges of his vision. Just before he’s sucked under, he hears John speaking sharply to Mary.

“Stay here. You’ve done enough damage, I think.” John bites out the words with enough force it’s clear he wants to shout.

There’s a sob then, quickly muffled and Sherlock wants to tell them not to fight; it’s not good for the baby. But when he opens his mouth, blackness rushes up to steal his words and he knows nothing more.

Waking in his hospital bed is also no more pleasant for repetition. His eyelids feel like weights are attached to them with strings of fire and if the taste is anything to go by, it’s highly likely that a small animal died in his mouth in the last few hours. Even more worrying, there are at least two elephants perching on his chest, which explains the sharp pains when he inhales. Sherlock spares a moment to wish that breathing really was boring. The exhale is worse and comes out as a low moan despite his best efforts.

He knows John is there before he speaks, the sound of his shoes against the cheap tile is as familiar as the faint scent of him: soap, coffee and sandalwood.

“Be still,” John tells him before he can try to move. “You’re lucky you didn’t finish the job Mary started, gallivanting around like that before you properly healed up. Now you’ll rest if I have to sedate you to see to it.”

Sherlock manages a nod of agreement. “I’m sorry.” He doesn’t know if he’s apologizing for his own actions, or for Mary’s, but he supposes it doesn’t matter. “There was no other way to handle the situation that kept you relatively safe while uncovering the truth.” The words sound hollow. The fact they are true doesn’t make any part of this situation better. And it’s too close to his explanation after the Fall for any degree of comfort. The last time John suffered so, it was also Sherlock’s doing.

He fights to open his eyes. He needs to see John’s face, to gauge his reaction. His doctor’s exhausted and he’s aged years in the last few hours. As his brain catalogues the feel of the industrial grade linens and the too familiar hospital smells and sounds, Sherlock has to work to submerge a cold flare of anger. The fact that he understands why Mary did what she did doesn’t change how much he wants to dismantle her, completely destroy her for hurting John this way, for using both of them as pawns. But he won’t allow himself the luxury. Whatever small pain he feels at the betrayal, he knows it’s exponentially less than what John is going through right now.

That’s not to say he looks it. John’s jaw is set with anger, then he takes a deep, harsh breath and his face goes blank. He leans back in the hard, moulded plastic chair, hands neatly folded in his lap. But his knuckles are white where they interlock.

The silence is too tense to be comfortable. Finally, John speaks. “I get it, I do. You had to do it, if you wanted me to believe you. But did you really have to take her side? You actually excused her for shooting you, damn it. And that’s just not okay. Would you be alright with it, if the shoe was on the other foot?”

The thought of it stabs another sharp pain through his chest. John is very good in a crisis, but it’s unlikely he would have dealt quite as well with getting shot. And just the thought that he would have to is intolerable.

“No,” Sherlock admits, his voice soft with the realization. “I wouldn’t.”

“There you go.” John nods, with a twist of his mouth that’s a bitter attempt at a smile. “I’m angry she lied. But I’m bloody furious she took such a chance with you. She had no right to take such a risk; you don’t risk the people you care about.”

Sherlock starts to shrug, then stops when even the slight movement makes pain bloom in his shoulders. “I doubt she felt she had any other choice.” He fights to keep his tone bland, but it doesn’t help.

“No. I don’t accept that. I won’t. She didn’t have to lie for so long, or choose such a rash plan. God, Sherlock, I know you prefer to make light of such things, but you could have died. I could have lost you, for good this time.” John’s mouth snaps shut and he keeps the rest of his words to himself, but the devastation is back in his eyes again. 

The apology he wants to say is bitter on his tongue, but Sherlock bites it back. “I’m alright, John. Given some time, I’ll heal without incident. Whatever else she may have done, we both know Mary is part of the reason that I’m still here to say that.”

“Maybe so,” John agrees. “But that doesn’t change the facts. No matter how precise you think she was, you could have died. Bad enough that everything I thought I knew about her was a lie, the fact she took such a risk with your life -” He stops and his breath is harsh for long moments. Finally he shakes his head and speaks again. “I’m not sure I can forgive that.”

Sherlock ignores the part of him that feels so satisfied at those words, and focuses outward again. “What can I do, John?” He doesn’t mean to say it out loud. He blames the drugs and the fact they aren’t at a high enough dose to deal with more than the sharpest edges of his pain.

“For starters, try not to get shot again anytime soon, yeah?” The attempt at lightness is awkward and John’s voice almost breaks at the end.

Sherlock pretends he doesn’t notice and nods. “I shall do my best.” 

A nurse interrupts then, coming in to take his vitals and otherwise make a pest of herself. She checks him over far too thoroughly, while slanting dark looks at John. Thanks to Mycroft’s interference, the staff won’t make John leave, but she it’s clear she would like to.

John stays silent and still in his chair. Sherlock finds he misses his usual chatter with the hospital staff, but he knows the lack of interaction is understandable given the circumstances.

When they’re alone in the room again, he shifts in the bed until he can to sit up and examine John more thoroughly. He notes the drooping shoulders, the crease between John’s brows and the pallor to his skin. Physical manifestations of emotional pain are to be expected, but he wishes fervently that he could assuage them. Logically he knows that’s not possible, but watching John suffer is much more difficult than he expects.

John moves to perch on the end of the bed then and takes Sherlock’s hand. “Stay down, or I swear I’ll send someone for restraints.” There’s no hint of joking in his tone.

Sherlock gives a tiny nod in response. He’s certain of his conclusions about the whole awful mess, but he finds that knowing why everything happened the way it did doesn’t bring him its usual comfort. He’s cold and tired down to his bones, but his mind is still skittering from one topic to another with almost no restraint because he can’t spare the energy to direct it.

“You should try to rest. Your body needs sleep to heal,” John reminds him.

Sherlock snorts and wishes he could obey as easily as that. “You’ll stay?” He wants to ask for contact, more than the press of their hands together, but the words stick in his throat. With everything John’s been though, the last thing he needs is an overly needy consulting detective making demands.

It’s John turn to snort. “Of course I will. I'm not letting you out of my sight. Now go to sleep.”

He tries, but his mind loops all the things that could still go wrong and he can’t stop it playing. He doesn’t dare risk retreat into his mind palace; John might need him here. Tension snakes down his neck to clench his back and he simply cannot relax. Even with his eyes shut, he can see John’s expression, a mix of fondness and exasperation. A moment later, he hears fabric rustle as John shifts and gets up, but Sherlock manages to hold back an involuntary noise of protest.

“It’s alright, Sherlock. I’ll be right back,” John reassures him quietly as he moves to the door. There’s a click as the lock engages, and then John returns. He moves Sherlock over to the far side of the bed, and there’s a pause. Sherlock hears shoes thud to the floor and the slide of a jacket against the chair and then John climbs into the bed and settles himself carefully beside Sherlock. He aligns their bodies so his weight is against Sherlock but without enough pressure to cause any pain, proving that he’s not alone, that John is there, close and warm.

Try as he might, Sherlock can’t stop himself from grabbing John’s arm and setting his fingers against the brachial pulse, but the other man doesn’t seem to mind.

“I’m right here. I'm safe and so are you, I promise,” John murmurs before he shifts to brush his lips against Sherlock’s forehead. “Just relax.”

Sherlock feels himself start to drift. It’s not his own safety that concerns him, but the proof that John is safe with him beats steadily beneath his fingers. The last thing he sees as he lets himself succumb is John reaching across to increase his morphine.

When he wakes again, the room is dim and he’s uncertain where he is for an instant. But then he registers the familiar lines of John’s body against his and breathes out slowly.

His doctor’s clothes are rumpled, and it’s clear he has pain in his neck and back. In his other hand, John is holding the drive that Mary gave him, turning it over and over. When he notices that Sherlock is awake, John looks up and their eyes meet. He says nothing, but his eyes gleam with the tears he’s fighting back.

Sherlock clears his throat and looks down to give John a chance to collect himself. Instead, he watches the movement of John’s fingers as the clench around the drive. It’s embarrassing how many seconds it takes for him to realize that there is something he can do to help.

He squeezes John’s hand as he looks back up. “Give it to me. You need to know if you can live with whatever she’s done, but you won’t want the details to poison any hope of a relationship with Mary, even if it is just as the mother of your child and nothing else.”

He doesn’t add that he wants to spare John the pain he knows it will cause no matter how the contents could be justified. He’s certain he would be able to successfully interact with Mary no matter what the files contain, and chooses to ignore the fact that even so, he’s not sure he actually wants to set eyes on her again. 

There’s a long pause. John has to clear his throat before he speaks. “I want to let you. God, how I want to let you. But it’s bad, we know that. There’s no reason you should have to carry that.”

It still takes him off guard, the rush of feelings this man can provoke in him, even with all his years of careful control. This time, Sherlock doesn’t fight it, let’s what he feels show clearly on his face, despite all his instincts telling him to hide it. “There’s every reason,” he argues.

John hands over the drive. His hand shakes, and when he smiles, it’s small and fragile. “Not unless you can do it and stay calm. I don’t want your temper undoing every bit of healing you’ve done so far,” he chides. He doesn’t add the thank you but Sherlock hears it anyway.

After everything that’s happened, he expects John to advocate for a longer hospital stay and for the first - and probably only -time, he doesn’t argue. When John finally steals away for a few hours at 221b, Sherlock texts Mycroft to tell him to delay visiting until he can read the file.

Sherlock gives himself the first read through to absorb the facts. With the second he synthesizes the various details. By the end of the third, he’s added the lot to the room he dedicated to Mary in his mind palace. Better that it be safely contained until John is ready to discuss it.

Just over four hours later, his brother’s familiar footfalls sound in the hall. He has just enough time to arrange himself properly before the door opens. Sherlock looks up, and raises an eyebrow in question. “You look almost worse than I do. Is there an outbreak of war somewhere I should worry about?” He keeps his tone light to mask real concern.

Mycroft closes the door behind him and comes over to the bed. He’s lost weight, despite the fact he’s not currently dieting, and there are shadows under his eyes. One of the legs of his suit has a crease on the left leg and the most recent alterations are just a shade less than perfect. “Hardly that,” he answers. “I wanted to ask you what your wishes are regarding John’s wife.”

“Since when are my opinions a factor in your decisions?” Sherlock doesn’t bother trying to hide his surprise.

Mycroft’s smile is cold to match his expression. “You’re the one she nearly killed. Under the circumstances, you may take my consideration as a personal favour. By now you’ve read the file, so I am sure you have an opinion.” His upward lilt makes it a question. Of course he knows. Sherlock doesn’t react, and his annoyance recedes while he considers his answer. If his brother still considered Mary a credible threat, they wouldn’t be having this conversation.

Part of him wants to ask that she be neutralized, not killed, given the child she carries but at least imprisoned where she can never trouble them again. He remembers the bleak devastation in John’s eyes the night before, feels equally adrift when he remembers that the happy nights they’d all spent at Baker Street were a lie. He’s got more reason than most to want her gone. Yet, he also has more reason than most to know just how much John loves his wife. And he does love her even now. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t care about the contents of the file, or sound so afraid when he wonders if he can forgive her.

Pain slices at him then, as he wishes he could block out his own conclusions. John’s enormous capacity to care, indeed to love, has always been something he considers admirable, but weak. Now he can see it for the act of bravery it is, but wishes he could undo it. In that instant Sherlock decides he can do without any more belated revelations.

“Leave her alone,” he says. It’s an effort to get the words out, but he comforts himself with the reminder he can change his mind later.

Mycroft’s gaze is steady. “Alright. I’ll assign the standard protection detail, at least until the baby is born.”

Sherlock manages a nod. “Thank you.”

His brother shrugs that off, as usual. “Do you need anything? Or does John?” It’s a sincere offer, which is a bit disconcerting, as it’s not his birthday, he’s no longer near death, and there are no threats involved.

“What about John?” the man in question asks as he steps back into the room. He’s freshly clean, from a longer shower than he usually indulges in but still shows signs of fatigue and anxiety. His eyes are clear and direct as he looks over at the elder Holmes.

“I was inquiring if you need anything?” Mycroft elucidates with a hint of impatience. Sherlock deduces that Mycroft is upset he didn’t anticipate John’s return quite so early. But there’s no amusement to be found in it, not with everything still so painfully wrong. Instead, Sherlock watches the doctor’s eyes go dark before he speaks.

“I’m fine, thanks.” John seats himself in the visitor’s chair and squares his shoulders like he expects to be contradicted.

“The only thing I need is to be allowed to go home,” Sherlock says in deliberate challenge. It’s thin as distractions go, but it gets John started on the list of reasons he must stay in the hospital. Mycroft listens to Sherlock’s rebuttal; his micro-expressions and body language make it clear he sees through the diversionary tactic, but he makes no comment.

Sherlock’s still arguing when Mycroft leaves, shutting the door with a decisive click.

***

Losing an argument is unpleasant. Losing an argument without John noticing it’s intentional is challenging in his current state but he manages. Anyone with half a functional brain cell can see the doctor needs someone to focus on besides himself at the moment. Sherlock’s own dislike of the hospital environment is inconsequential.

Still, he’s near to ecstatic when John and whichever of the hospital doctors assigned to him this time finally say he can go home.

His happiness lasts until they are back in the flat and he sees the unmistakable signs of Mary: a pair of shoes by the door, her favourite sweater on the corner of the couch, the mug only she uses on the counter. The silence goes heavy and oppressive and Sherlock wants to get up and clear it all away, despite his normal hatred of cleaning. Before he can get up, John shoots him a look to pin him in place.

“Don’t even think about it. You can clean after you’ve taken it easy for another week at least,” he admonishes. John keeps his expression cheerful, but Sherlock can see grief and pain in the careful lines of his body as he moves to pick it all up.

Later, when they go to bed and neither of them mentions the very specific clean up, or anything else to do with Mary, he feels the echo of her presence nonetheless and his chest aches when he thinks how much worse it must be for John.

He cannot find the words to express his sympathy, doesn’t think John would appreciate it even if he did. John is less careful with him now and they tangle together under the duvet. He doesn’t really need blankets, not with John so close, but he doesn’t mind.

“You haven’t brought it up.” John’s voice is soft, in deference to the late hour and his own hesitation.

“I thought it better if I didn’t, not until you were ready.”

“Yeah, pretty sure I never will be,” John tells him with a bitter laugh. There’s a long pause and he squeezes Sherlock’s hand.

“Given your own history, I’m confident that there is nothing in that file you wouldn’t be able to understand. After she parted ways with the intelligence community as a whole, it seems your Mary had fairly strict standards in the contracts she accepted.”

“Fantastic. I married a mercenary.”

“Not entirely. From what I can tell, some of her work was still done on the behalf of the government, even if it wasn’t overtly acknowledged.” Sherlock shakes his head and returns to his main point. “Trust me, John, there is nothing in that file you would consider unforgivable.”

John shifts around so they are facing each other and then kisses him. “I’ve trusted you completely and without hesitation since the day I met you. Nothing can change that.” He punctuates his words with another kiss. “But Mary is another matter entirely. Even if what’s in the file can be considered justifiable, how can I possibly see my way past what she did to you?” His voice is shaky.

Sherlock lets his arms tighten around him and stays silent. If the situation were reversed he would no doubt feel the same, so there’s nothing he can say without making himself a hypocrite.

They fall into a routine of sorts. John handles most of the domestic chores just as he did before the debacle of his marriage. He badgers Sherlock into taking better care of himself to speed his recovery. Proper meals, proper sleep, moderate exercise: it’s all hateful but Sherlock does it anyway. It’s something to do, which is a plus, and it helps John to see him progressing, which is worth any discomfort.

When the tedium of recovery threatens to overwhelm him, John grudgingly allows him to look over cold cases; he’s forbidden to even look at anything current on pain of landing back in hospital. By mutual consent, they don’t see very many people, just Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, and occasionally, Lestrade.

Sherlock knows it’s a sign of the depth of John’s grief that he’s gone so anti-social but he’s selfishly glad to have long stretches where there’s just the two of them.

After another few weeks, John pronounces Sherlock almost back to his old self, but there is no sign of his usual smile as he says it, no spark in his eyes as they discuss Sherlock’s return to work.

He asks when John will return to his professional duties, the doctor only shakes his head. When he finally speaks, his tone is flat. “Not sure when that’s going to happen. Took a leave of absence actually. Need a chance to get my head together.”

Privately, Sherlock is not sure that more time to consider his situation is a positive in this case. John’s internal conflict is clear, as is the mental stalemate he finds himself in. The smaller man has lost weight he cannot afford to lose. He isn’t sleeping well. Nightmares of the Fall have given way to things he won’t talk about, though he often gasps Mary’s name just before he wakes.

Twilight is falling on Sherlock’s first day back at what he estimates to be nearly full strength when he comes out of the bathroom, his dressing gown trailing on the floor. When he steps into the kitchen, John turns his head quickly to hide the tears he isn’t fast enough to wipe away.

The sheen of moisture in John’s eyes brings a surge of anger low in Sherlock’s stomach, but he breathes through it, considering the options. Enough is enough. Something needs to be done; but he needs more data first.

***

He has to juggle several variables. He must be sure the dose is high enough, that the sedative he’d chosen to concoct would remain undetectable, and that he factors in how worn and exhausted John is these days. Still it all goes smoothly, just a few extra CCs in his after supper mug of tea and John goes to bed for the night only a short time later.

Sherlock’s conscience makes an entirely unwanted appearance in the time he waits between when John falls asleep and when he can leave the flat. He reminds himself that he isn’t experimenting on John, which is what he agreed to stop drugging him for. He’s not out to prove any hypothesis this time. He simply needs to be certain this will be a private conversation. Besides, as worn away as John is, he can use a good night’s sleep, even if it is chemically induced.

The cab he pre-ordered glides up just as he closes the door. He uses the ride to ponder the possible outcomes to this conversation, and what they might lead to.

The night feels colder as he knocks on the door, and he takes a rather vicious satisfaction at the surprise on Mary’s face when she stands in front of him. Then she collects herself, smoothes her expression into one of calm neutrality, and gestures him in. There are no words between them as they move into the sitting room. He takes the overstuffed recliner, she chooses the couch and flicks on the small lamp next to it.

“There are very few people in the whole of the world who can lie to me as well as you did,” he points out while she stares at him in silence. Nothing, not even the smallest twitch of an eyelid in answer. Mary only looks at him steadily. It’s what he expected, so Sherlock continues. “Now I find myself in a position that is rather unique for me at least, debating whether I can believe anything you’ve told me, or anything you say now and in future dealings.”

“You must feel speaking to me can be of some use, or you wouldn’t have wasted the time or the energy to come here.” Mary’s tone is even, but her fingers grip the arm of the couch harder than necessary.

“Whatever else may have happened, you were desperate to keep John from discovering your lies. That suggests you truly do care about him.” Sherlock feels some surprise at how difficult it is to keep his tone even.

“Of course I do. You’ve observed my interactions with him. You know not all of those reactions were within my ability to control.”

He acknowledges that with the barest hint of a nod. “I came here to ask you if your feelings for John are genuine, and if so, to ascertain what you see as a positive outcome for our current situation.”

“Yes, I’m sure you did. But the real question here is why did you come at all? What does it matter now?” Mary’s eyes have gone flat and her whole body is tense.

“Because if you don’t actually care about him, I need to know that so I can help him get through the inevitable pain that realization will bring him. If he was simply a convenience for the sake of being able to hide, or some other means to an end, then better that come from me.”

“Whatever else I’ve done, whatever else I’ve lied about, I love John more than I can say. That was always the truth. I’d do anything to prove it.”

Sherlock believes her, though he wishes he didn’t so keenly he nearly shakes. He can’t understand how people hold in this many feelings, all of them violently intense and banging around with no regard for his intellect whatsoever. Sherlock takes a breath and holds it, feels it expand his chest and tries to remember his control. He has what he needs, there’s no reason to continue his questions. He’s not here for himself.

“I know you likely won’t believe me, but I love you too, though it would be immensely easier if I didn’t,” Mary tells him, and her weight shifts as if she wants to move closer, but she doesn’t.

Sherlock feels his breath catch in his throat. This isn’t about him, or the burn of betrayal that he still feels clawing to be let out with vicious words. It is hardly the first time he’s discovered himself to be the expendable afterthought in the equation.

“Irrelevant,” he retorts. “And not at all what I came here to discuss.”

“Not to me it isn’t,” Mary tells him, her voice sharp. Her neutral mask is slipping. He can see the signs of insomnia, insufficient nutrition at least that day, and a rather intense headache. She meets his gaze without blinking. Her eyes are dry, but her mouth trembles slightly, and she braces for the next verbal barrage.

For just a moment, his temper slips through. “Yes, because so many people show how much they care with a bullet.” He lobs the words at her with an edge sharp enough to cut glass.

He expects a restatement of his own explanation of her motives, but she looks down at her lap and says nothing for so long, he nearly gets up to leave. 

“You were right. It was surgery, but for more than the reasons you came up with. It was the best option for dealing with Magnussen and his goons, but it was also the best way to protect you from much more than that,” Mary finally admits, and her voice wavers to match the guilt he sees in her eyes. “It was my fault we were all in that mess in the first place; I was so sure I’d considered everything but I was wrong. By the time I knew just how wrong I was, shooting you was the only way I could convince some of the other people who were after me that you were expendable, that they would gain nothing by hurting you.

“I know what John must think of what I did, but you simply don’t have the training to keep yourself as safe as he does. I had to do something but it was as much for him as it was for you. He wouldn’t survive losing you again.” Mary shuts her mouth abruptly, swallows the words with visible effort.

He considers her for a long moment before he asks his next question. “Once we’ve dealt with the current threat, are there other enemies that would threaten John and your child, put them in danger?”

“No more than his association with you,” Mary answers, then clenches her hands into fists and holds up a hand. “I’m sorry. No, as far as I know, there are none. I’ve already made arrangements.”

Sherlock considers her for another long moment, tracks her micro expressions and body language. He doesn’t ask what arrangements those might be. He’s already aware of the lengths she’s willing to go and how meticulous she can be.

She holds his gaze steadily. “I am sorry, Sherlock, truly. I never meant for any of this to happen but I can’t be sorry it did, because I wouldn’t change loving John, or you, for anything. Not even now, when he likely won’t speak to me again.”

He stops, ponders whether or not he’s actually willing to give her anything in the wake of the pain she’s caused. But there’s no hope of helping John through this without helping Mary. And now that he’s with her, he can admit he misses her presence too.

“Eventually, he will contact you. He won’t be able to help himself. He may wish to deny it, but your husband still loves you very much.”

She looks at him then, and tears dampen her eyes. “Why would you tell me that, after everything I’ve done?”

Sherlock clenches his fists tight enough to feel the bite of pain. His own control is thinning; standing here with Mary so close, it’s impossible to forget that what’s happened is as much his fault as hers. He’s the one who chose to deliberately ignore the signs of deceit for stupidly foolish, overtly sentimental reasons. But he can’t delve into the answer to her question, not now. So he ignores it.

“At this point, there’s nothing you can do but wait for him to process his feelings. But I’ll do what I can to move the process along.”

There’s no sound until Mary’s mouth drops open with a click. “You’ll what?”

He doesn’t bother to hide his smirk. “Don’t make me repeat myself. It’s tedious. Consider it me returning the favour.” Nearly out the door, he turns back to face her. “And take care of yourself properly in the meantime.” 

The smile she gives him stays with him all the way home.

***

Sherlock makes dinner that night. Just because he chooses not to expend energy cooking doesn’t mean he’s incapable and preparing a meal is the sensible option. Momentous discussions tend to end in more positive outcomes when accompanied by food.

It’s clear John knows he’s up to something; it’s not as if he comes home to dinner on the table often – or ever, if they’re talking about at Sherlock’s hands. But he doesn’t comment, only compliments the entree and dessert and lets Sherlock lead him to the lounge and settle them in before he speaks.

“This is the part you tell me you need to talk to me and it’s got to be about Mary. Out with it then.” John’s tone is firm, but he’s still calm, and that’s is good. 

“No matter what you choose to do, I’ll fully support your decision, John. You know that.” Sherlock waits for the careful nod of agreement before he continues. “But I think it’s worth noting that your choices shouldn’t be based on conventional notions of what you ought to do, or even the fact there is the baby to think of.”

“I’m hardly likely to forget about the baby. You know that.” 

“Of course not. I’m not saying you should, only that you’ll be the child’s father regardless of what you choose in regards to Mary. We can be certain you’ll excel as a parent and thus build a mutually satisfying relationship. If there are any difficulties regarding custody and visitation, I have ample access to resources in the legal community.”

John’s eyes go wide, and he swallows several times. “Thank you. But it’s not that simple.”

“Unfortunately, things never are when emotion clouds logic,” Sherlock laments for a moment before pulling himself back to the subject at hand. “If we remove the baby as a factor from the problem, purely hypothetically, of course, we’re left with the matter of her past history to consider.”

“I suppose you could say that. Or you could say she lied to me about every single thing that mattered since the day we met.”

“I understand being lied to is painful.” The realization had surprised him since, before Mary, he most often felt curiosity when lied to, rather than pain or anger. Now he knows all too well how much it could hurt. Still he has a point to make. “Surely even you must be able to see she had her reasons. And all her attempts to communicate more recently have been scrupulously honest, which proves she is capable of veracity.”

“I can believe that. But that doesn’t mean I trust her. And it doesn’t mean she and I can still have a future.”

“Perhaps not,” Sherlock concedes. “But you chose her for a reason. Her positive qualities aren’t dependent on the specifics of geography, ethnicity, or any other trifling detail. 

“I know you,” he tells John, willing him to understand. He does know him, not just his outer shell, but all the complicated layers that make John who he is. “I know what you think, what you feel - even when you wish I didn’t. Like I’ve told you before, I can’t turn it off.” 

Sherlock stops, noting the inconvenient increase in his own pulse and respiration. “I know you, so I know that once you love someone, it’s a permanent condition. You can’t cut her out of your life and still be happy. So, the obvious conclusion is that now is the time to build new patterns of behaviour that work for both of you.”

“You make it sound easy but it’s not,” John tells him, shaking his head.

“My attempts to clarify the issue weren’t meant to imply that such a thing would be easy. You still need time: to accept, to adjust, and very likely to control your temper.”

John nods vigorously at that, then lets out a long sigh. “I love you, but I still hate it when you’re right sometimes.” He shifts closer on the sofa then arranges himself comfortably in Sherlock’s lap and smiles. “I’ll work on my temper while I work on accepting all the rest of it,” he promises, just before their mouths are busy doing much more satisfying things than talking.

***

All in all, Sherlock thinks he deserve a bit of self congratulation. His parents think the idea to have Christmas out of season was theirs, and all the requisite people are in attendance. He waits for John go into the sitting room where Mary is waiting and slips in behind him. He already knows what John will say, so it’s not strictly speaking necessary for him to be here, but John had asked him to be there for moral support. It’s not in him to refuse when his doctor asks him for something, even if it is to bear witness to what’s likely to be an uncomfortably emotional scene.

He leans against the wall in the corner and watches, but it takes only a moment to realize he’s not nearly as uncomfortable as he expected. Watching them together makes something in him relax that’s been wound tight for so long the difference is foreign, but good. When John asks Mary Watson is good enough as a name, he feels his throat get tight and has to blink rapidly for a moment. Not that he is any danger of crying of course; he hasn’t done that since he was a young child.

“Don’t think I don’t see you lurking there, Sherlock. Come here and give me a proper hug,” Mary demands after a few more moments in John’s arms. 

He feels his smile stretch wider as he complies, but doesn’t bother to hide it. Just this once, he’ll indulge in some open happiness. It’s something of a special occasion after all. When he slides his arms around Mary, she embraces him tightly, tucking her head under his chin.

“He’ll be insufferable now, love, you know that,” John notes as he moves to hold both of them as best he can.

Mary’s answering laugh is a bit watery and she nods. “That’s alright. He allowed this time. We spent months in silence, might still be there if not for him.”

John’s sheepish look is his only answer but he smiles as the three of them move to sit down.

Sherlock looks over at the two of them, still tentative with each other, but so clearly happy and he wishes he had more time to enjoy it. All too soon, Mary goes limp; the events for the afternoon must follow the proper schedule. But that doesn’t mean he has to like it.

He’s quite proud of the plan he’s come up with to sort out the Magnussen situation. It’s neat and elegant and there’s no reason for the sick lurch of dread that chases him as John double checks that Mary is okay. He and John stride headlong into danger all the time. But the dread stays with him, just out of reach. He can’t even properly enjoy the fact he’s the one doing the drugging this time.

It’s not until later, standing in the chilly darkness while the guns point at him and Magnussen that Sherlock understands. All this time, and there is still a part of him that thinks John and Mary will be better off without him. What’s he done to earn the happiness he’s found?

He’s already died for John and he knows living with the consequences of this action will be so much harder than that. But there is only one way to be certain Mary will not only be safe but able to thrive. And he cannot ask John to have yet more blood on his hands, not when all he’s ever done is teach Sherlock about the most important things he had never really understood until they had each other: loyalty, acceptance, and unconditional love.

While Magnussen pontificates, Sherlock looks straight at John and lets his calm mask drop. He’s not at all accustomed to showing what he feels and it makes him feel naked, but it’s all he can do. There’s no time for anything else.

Clearly, John wants to fight; his eyes are full of a potent mix of fear and fury. When he sees Sherlock look at him he goes very still and then his body trembles as he tries to deny what is about it happen.

Sherlock feels his eyes widen and his smile go sharp and fierce. With one small action, he’ll protect those he loves and salvage this disaster of a night. When he pulls the trigger, satisfaction surges, bright and hot. Whatever else he got wrong, this at least he knows is right.

_***FIN**  
To be concluded in part III - Master Work _


End file.
